Chasing Music
by Stars in Brilliance
Summary: Sometimes the allure of music is too strong. You can play to it, sing to it, dance to it, and yet the most you can ever do is chase it for more.
1. Beginnings

**Title: **Chasing Music

**Author: **Stars in Brilliance

**Summary: **Sometimes the allure of the music is too strong. You can play to it, sing to it, dance to it, and yet the most you can ever do is chase it for more.

**Disclaimer #1:** This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

**Disclaimer #2: **Should there be any discrepancies, all authors are aware of this as they have studied music in one form or another. Certain liberties were taken for the sake of the story.

**Note:** This chapter was written by _Rinail_, with the aid of _Topaz Tsubasa._

* * *

**Chapter 1: Beginnings**

Mikan is the thirty-seventh candidate to walk into the halls of the esteemed Alice Academy of Music, three hours before the last day of auditions end. As the heads of musicians, singers, and dancers alike swivel around to stare at her, she wonders if the previous thirty-six are so desperate to get past the auditions that they're willing to get a murder charge for it.

That's what their stares tell her, at least, but Mikan, ever the optimist, hopes that isn't the case.

With cautious steps, she maneuvers her way around the other candidates. The hall is large, with marble floor encompassing yards of space, and the stark white walls curve around a staircase in a gentle slope. A section of the wall is lined with delicate glass. Glancing through it, Mikan can make out a second floor below with another set of stairs leading up.

Above the low steps reads the sign "Auditorium", and Mikan peers over the metal rail to find a heavy wooden door at the end of the stairs. Pressing her lips together, she pulls herself back from the glass to stare at the other staircase beside her.

_It can't be, _she thinks and begins walking, her steps fueled by a mix of incredulity and disbelief.

But sure enough, at the top of the staircase, a gold-plated sign reads, "Auditorium".

It seems like the school is much bigger than she originally thought, and considering the size of the school was already magnified with her countryside imagination, it's impressive indeed.

Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire opposite wall, showing a view of the frosty snowfield outside. Sunlight filters in through the glass in a halo of golden light. Combined with the white walls, blue sky, and glittering snow, it makes for one heck of a view.

Inside, the halls are a complete contrast. It's full of a warm and stuffy air created from a tension fueled by hundreds of nervous candidates, causing anxiety to hang heavy on her shoulders, ever so present in her throat when she tries to swallow.

M_an, _does Mikan wish there was a water fountain handy. She takes a sweeping glance at the hall, but she can't spot a single source of drinkable water, and she doesn't quite trust herself to find the hall again, either. With a heavy sigh, she settles for dealing with a parched throat until water presents itself to her.

As the minutes pass by agonizingly slow, Mikan paces amongst her fellow candidates, who all mill around like they're chickens lined up for slaughter. Their limbs are taut with a nervous energy, tension winding them up like a tight wire, and the lines of their body are hard and unwelcoming. Absently, Mikan notices that the hall is loud, but almost nobody is found conversing with another person. Rather, it's the noise of feet tapping, dancers stretching, singers humming, and sounds of various instruments warming up.

It's the noise of some of the most promising music students in the world gathered in one hall, waiting to audition for the Alice Academy of Music.

Mikan sort of wishes she came in wearing something more presentable. Nearly everybody here has shown up with their flowing dresses and sleek suits; they, unlike her, look as if they belong in the most renowned music school in the country.

Mikan, with her brown pigtails and sweatshirt from a remote community college, looks as if she should be at the local _food market._

But Mikan already knows there's no time to go back home on a four-hour train ride and change. They're already on Candidate #28 and she's Candidate #37.

Blowing out a slow breath, Mikan's pacing comes to a stop when she leans on a smooth beige wall, her hands seeking out the sticker plastered on the edges of her shirt. Her fingers toy with it absently.

Mikan has practically memorized every wrinkle, every fold on the thing after she's fawned over it so many times, but it somehow manages to surprise her every time she sees it.

_Candidate #37, Alice __Academy__ of __Music__._

A smile twitches at her lips.

Mikan still remembers her elation when she first saw the letter in the mail, remembers how hard her hands were shaking as she tore it open, and she remembers how joy had fluttered in her throat like a scream waiting to break out.

Mikan regrets not bringing the letter along with her, just for something to read to calm her down. As it is, she only has her phone and a folded lyrics sheet in her pocket. But even without the actual thing here with her, it's almost too easy to see the words printed on the crinkled letter when she closes her eyes.

_Ms. Mikan Sakura,_

_Your audition form for the Alice __Academy__ of __Music__ has been received. Enclosed is a sticker that will allow entry into the school on whichever day you decide to audition; your audition number will be stamped on your sticker on the day of. _

_Dates for audition are from January 16th to January 23rd, 10 AM-2 PM. If by circumstance you are unable to come on these days, make-up dates are on January 25th and the 26th, 12-4 PM._

We look forward to seeing what talents you have to offer.

Regards,

_Kazumi Yukihara, Principal of Alice __Academy__ of __Music__._

Even now, Mikan suppresses the urge to grin. _We look forward to seeing what talents you have to offer._

_Talents, _it had said.

Reading it was like the very first time she had sung her heart out and felt the freedom of music on her tongue, heart swelling at the word and thumping a frenzied beat deep in her chest. In the letter, her singing was something to be recognized, something _special_; it was a talent she could offer for the whole world to see one day.

At that moment, it was as if she could see the stage opening up before her, the glare of the spotlight hot on her cheeks, the thrill of performing rushing through her blood.

_Talents,_ it had said. But to her, it read—

_Opportunity._

Looking around at the other candidates, Mikan realizes that _this_ is what is at stake for them. Their gifts, their talents, their hours thrown into painstakingly honing their ability—it's _everything_ that is at stake for this one audition, for this one chance to get into the school.

It's the one opportunity to see the stage, feel the spotlight, hear the thrill of performing rushing through their blood—and that is something that they _all_ share.

She wonders how many miles were traveled to get to this audition, wonders how many, like her, had to endure long train rides and countless buses just to make it to the school. She thinks about how much money was spent for private lessons and recitals and competitions, thinks—

_How much would they be willing to sacrifice? _

The facts are hard to forget. Even Mikan, who has had a constant off-and-on relationship with numbers—mostly off—knows the acceptance rate of the school like the back of her hand. There's two thousand people who audition, and only three hundred who get in. The rest—_seventeen hundred—_are dropped.

All those people, with their time, money, _effort_—all rejected in favor of the chosen three hundred.

It's a much bigger number than Mikan would like it to be, and she can't stop the thought from coming to her mind.

_What would it take for me to be one of those three hundred?_

No matter how much or how hard she thinks, Mikan can't come up with a reasonable reply. She can sing and practice all she wants, but too much practice amounts to vocal suicide, and too little of it is like throwing her chance away into the gutter.

Talk of natural talent and the like is a load of bull. Mikan knows that.

But if it's not practice and natural talent that'll get her in, then what _is?_

Mikan takes one more sweeping glance at the candidates around her, at all their humming, stretching, and foot tapping, and she wonders if they know the answer to her question.

But she already knows that there's no answer.

That's the most terrifying part of it all.

* * *

Mikan's been wandering around the campus for maybe ten minutes—she needed a drink of water, screw her worry about getting lost—when she encounters a pale blond boy with glasses.

Not only that, but he's rocking on the floor with his hands clamped against his ears. He looks as if he's about to puke, or keel over, or faint. Possibly all three.

Out of sheer concern, she stops before she passes him and kneels down beside him. _Do you need a bucket,_ she almost asks, but she thankfully has more tact than that. So instead, Mikan asks, "Are you okay?"

The boy doesn't take his hands off his ears, but he _does_ look up. There's fear and panic shining in his glassy eyes, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His white shirt is looking a bit damp, and he has an overall rumpled appearance about him, like he's run through the entire campus twice.

He's also trembling.

_Okay, _Mikan thinks, _maybe that was a stupid question. _

She's thinking about what to say that will calm him down and _not_ give him a coronary right then and there, but then the boy opens his mouth, making a noise that sounds eerily like a drowning cat. He closes his mouth, and opens it again. Closes and opens. He closes and opens his mouth once more, but this time, he manages a strangled, "I'm fine. I just—"

He stops.

The blood drains out of his face in a single instant, and if he was looking a little sick before, he's most _definitely _sick now. His hands come down from his ears to cover his mouth, and Mikan watches in frozen horror as he chokes out, _"Move_—"

And that's all the warning she gets before he pushes past her and half-stumbles, half-sprints towards the boys' bathroom.

Mikan stares at the crowd he has shoved aside in his wake, and unease starts to churn at the pit of her stomach once more. She's _just _cleared her bad thoughts, dammit, she can't get anxious _again._

_Don't get nervous now, _she thinks. Mikan bites at her lip so hard that she can taste the blood. D_on't get nervous, don't get nervous, don't get nervous._

Reflexively, she starts humming the song that her best friend Hotaru created to settle her nerves. It's been her go to song for _years _now, even back when she was eight and the song was a simple lullaby instead of a famous piece.

And as always, it manages to calm her, but it takes a few seconds of the song, the anxious bouncing of her leg, and the constant repetition of _calm down calm down_ before the lump in her throat begins to disappear.

Mikan continues singing it long after her nerves have settled, not just to distract her and _keep_ them settled, but also to warm-up her voice. Luckily enough, it has a large range of notes and a varying rhythm that makes it perfect to use.

Mikan's just reaching the chorus when someone bumps past her shoulder roughly. An apology starts forming on her lips—she _was_ standing around rather uselessly, after all—but then she hears them mutter, "Have fun getting in with your lousy singing."

_What. _

It takes a moment for Mikan to process what has been said and another moment to think, _This freakin' jerk—_before she whirls around, blinking incredulously. "_Excuse_ me?"

But the tall, dark-haired male who had just passed her keeps walking without even acknowledging her presence. For a second, Mikan is torn between marching up to him or fuming in silence, but the remark about her singing is too much to settle for remaining quiet.

She's put too much work into her singing to allow it to be mocked like that, dammit. Mikan's not gonna let him get away with this so easily.

Inhaling, Mikan thinks, _Screw__ it, _throwing all caution and reservation to the wind. She strides forward, catches his shoulder, and demands, "What did you say to me, you jerk?"

_That_ at least gets him to turn around, giving her a full view of his high cheekbones, sharp crimson eyes, and the most infuriating, deriding smirk she's ever _seen_.

"I said," the jerk begins slowly, "that you'll never be able to make it past the first minute of auditions." The smirk spreads on his lips. "Not if you keep shrieking away like that, anyway."

Mikan stiffens. Her mouth opens and closes like she's turned into a gaping fish, but she can't find her voice or the words to retaliate. She's stuck for a few seconds on what to say and _how _to say it.

Then, the jerk leans back on his leg with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Mikan stares at him in wordless shock.

_This guy—_

How can he be_ satisfied _when all he's done is mess with her? He's just insulted someone without a reason, and he's satisfied by it?

Does he think that it's okay to do that? Does he think it's _acceptable?_

The question's so terrible to think about—all of them are already nervous, how could he do think about doing even _more_ to them—that Mikan gets her voice back in a heartbeat and blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind. He needs a lesson, damn him; there's no way in _hell _that she's going to let him get away with this.

At least, that's the intention, but what _really _ends up coming out is:

"You—you useless little _paperclip!"_

She ends up turning more heads than she wants to—and it's not in a good way, either. The jerk himself swivels around to face her, his eyebrows furrowed. "What the fuck?"

Mikan wants to slap herself for not coming up with a better insult. _Useless little paperclip_, the_ hell _was that—but instead, she juts out her chin defiantly and steps forward.

"Yeah, that's right, I called you a useless little paperclip." _What am I doing, what the hell am I doing_— "I'll call you a useless paperclip all I want, because you can't just _say_ things to people and walk away like that. Not only is that extremely rude, but you're also acting like an immature first-grader!"

He seems at a loss for words. It's like he's never received a stern talking to, and that just fuels her rage and keeps her going.

But no, Mikan needs to stop, she's already receiving so much attention, what is she _doing—_

"At least first-graders know about respect," Mikan continues, ignoring her inner protests, "but it's like you don't even know that. If you want to go insult me, that's fine, I don't care"—_WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING_—"but don't you dare go screwing with people right before they audition. That's a jerk move, you absolute, freaking _pancake!"_

There's a stunned silence in the hall as Mikan catches her breath. She feels a bit of satisfaction at having torn him and his stupid opinions up, but Mikan doesn't bask in her joy. Instead, she stares at him determinedly, and he returns it with a somewhat shocked gaze. She's not exactly willing to break eye contact; it'd be like backing down, and Mikan refuses to lose no matter what.

But then, he breaks the stalemate by stepping forward. "So," he begins. "You don't care if I insult you."

Mikan blinks, her jaw falling open. _How was that the_ only_ thing he heard_—

"That means I can insult you all I want?"

He takes another step, and it instantly closes the gap between them to mere inches. It's only when he goes to loom over her that she notices how _tall _he is.

Mikan falters back, and then curses in her mind. _Damn these stupidly tall guys and their stupid height, damn it all_—

"Let me tell you something, _sweetheart."_

Mikan's lips part to say something. It might be a retort, like "don't call me sweetheart," or "quit acting so tall and mighty," but the words are lodged in her throat.

He's staring right into her, and she's caught in his gaze. _Damn, damn, damn. _

_She can't say anything. _

She can feel his breath tickling her chin. "Maybe you're right," he says, voice low. "Maybe I _am _more immature than a first-grader. But even if I am, that still doesn't make you any better of a person. You called someone names, offended them when they were only stating their opinion, and took up half the hallway like you ownit—I'd like to ask you_, _sweetheart, who's the more _immature _one here?"

And dammit, Mikan knows he isn't lying. She knew it well before he even pointed it out. But still, _still_—wasn't what she had done still better than _his_ actions?

Mikan scowls in protest. "I might have done that, but—"

"You called me a jerk, a useless paperclip, and an absolute pancake."

Mikan flushes hotly. She has stupid insults, sure, but he didn't have to _point it out—_

"I could get back at you for every single one of those names," he says with a shrug. "I could tell you about how you can't reach high notes, how your voice cracks on low notes, and how you have no power in your singing whatsoever."

Mikan's mouth drops open. _Did he just_—

"I could tell you all of those things," he says, "but I won't."

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips.

"Because I'm the bigger person, after all."

Mikan doesn't know when or how it happens. All she knows is that she raises her hand, and—

The hall resounds with a loud _smack. _

When Mikan releases her next breath, her palm is stinging by her sides. Her heart is _thrumming _with how much it burns from her anger.

The jerk's cheek is on its way to turning a bright red, but Mikan can't find it in herself to care. She clenches her jaw, chest tightening with all the white-hot fury and pure loathing building up inside her. _How dare he—he has no idea how much I've worked for this—_

"You have no right," Mikan spits out. Her words are clipped. "Call me whatever bullshit you want, because I don't care about any of it, but—my singing? Don'tinsult that ever again. You can't possibly know how much time I've spent on it, how much _effort_ I put into it. Don't think for a _second_ that you can go belittling my singing for your stupid satisfaction, you _asshole_."

And before she knows it, her feet are spinning her around, turning Mikan away from the jerk with the reddened cheek.

She keeps walking for a long while, needing to walk off all the anger that's simmering under her skin. God, Mikan's never wanted to punch anyone or even bodily maim someone before, but it seems like the jerk has broken her record and managed to do it—all in two minutes.

Her hands don't stop trembling for a long minute, and the pounding in her head doesn't quiet down either. Mikan starts humming Hotaru's song again, but this time it comes out a bit more vicious with the thoughts spinning around in her mind. _Stupid jerks and their annoying arrogance, stupid, stupid, _stupid_—_

Mikan collapses on the floor and leans her back against the wall. She counts the seconds that pass by in her head until her hands become still in her lap, heartbeat finally calming down to a decent rhythm.

Sighing, Mikan closes her eyes. Everything feels quiet; the ever-present sounds of the other candidates have eased into indistinct murmurs. It's tranquil and peaceful, and _this_ is what she needs. Just a single moment for herself.

And then all of it is interrupted by a single—

"_Candidate #37 to the __auditorium__, please. I repeat, __Candidate__ #37, to the __auditorium__."_

Mikan's eyes fly open.

_Shoot._

* * *

When Mikan pushes open the door of the auditorium, it's not to the nervous chatter of the halls, but rather to a tense silence that hangs heavy in the air.

Swallowing, she nudges open the door a bit more and slides past the crack, easing the door shut behind her. The lighting in the auditorium is much brighter than in the hall, forcing Mikan to blink multiple times. Once her eyes adjust though, her mouth goes slack.

The room is _huge. _

There are rows upon rows of seats, separated in easy visible groups. A few steps forward shows her that there are even _more _seats tucked into little groups against the walls. There are multiple levels of balconies, and what blows her away is that they're not just a few solid levels. The balconies break into half-circles at the sides of the room, artfully weaved into the walls and around each other. And all of it descends and folds into one focal point: the stage.

That, combined with the natural feel of the wooden borders and green walls, makes Mikan feel like she's just stepped into Narnia.

As she treads gingerly on the carpet—all the while hoping she doesn't have mud on her shoes—the view of the stage opens up before her. Mikan's been to maybe three stages before: one from her old elementary school, middle school, and high school—but _none _of those stages compare to the one right in front of her.

Apparently the auditorium itself wasn't good enough, because the stage is the biggest thing she's ever seen. Sweeping navy curtains lay folded to the sides, and she counts maybe six spotlights focused on one point in the stage.

And for heaven's sake, the floor is _black. _The lights only accentuate how sleek and smooth it is, and Mikan can't even see so much as a blemish on the pristine stage. She feels an urge to be up there, with the numerous spotlights trained on her as she sings her heart away.

_What a view it must be, _Mikan thinks.

As she nears the stage, Mikan can make out the clear sound of a string instrument trilling away. Her eyes spot a blond boy in the spotlight playing what looks to be a violin. He's dressed in a sleek black suit with his sleeves rolled up, but his jacket, she sees, is tossed carelessly on the ground.

Even still, he practically radiates elegance, what with the neat blond hair and the suit and the violin, but the rough movements of his bow contrasts that image. Mikan is just barely able to discern a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead as he sways on stage, so caught up in the heat of the music.

She can't help but stare as his left hand flies up and down the strings almost effortlessly, his other arm moving like it's possessed with a mind of its own.

Mikan stumbles her way to the nearest seat, unable to tear her eyes away. Maybe it's the way his hands hold the instrument with such familiarity, or the way he seems completely at peace even in the heat of the spotlight—but either way, the air is _stifling_ with the amount of stage presence he exudes.

Mikan can tell the piece is coming to a close when he crescendos, his movements remaining smooth despite the increasing speed. There's a pause for a short second, the trill echoing loudly in the auditorium, before he resumes with a sudden series of fast notes. He keeps it up for what feels like ages, his fingers dancing up and down the strings like a madman, and Mikan thinks her jaw may have dropped at least twice by the time he slows down into an extended note.

He ends the piece with five quick sweeps of the bow, and his last note rings out like a clear bell, finality hanging still in the air.

Only after he lowers his instrument does Mikan start to clap.

She's the only one.

Her applause is abruptly cut off when realization of_ this isn't an actual concert oh no_ strikes her. Mikan's cheeks are hot as she slides low into her chair, flushed with embarrassment, and behind her, someone mutters, "Idiot."

She whirls around in her seat to tell the jerk that it was a _great _performance. If not for the fact that applause might have gotten her kicked out, she would've clapped even if there were three laws forbidding it.

Then her eyes start to adjust to the dim lighting. She makes out a mess of dark hair, finely arched eyebrows, and—

A flash of anger sparks in her chest.

"_You!" _Mikan hisses. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The jerk from earlier takes a second to roll his eyes. "Killing three candidates," he answers sarcastically. "What do you think, fuckwit?"

Mikan scowls. "Don't call me that!"

Not bothering to reply, the jerk just rolls his eyes again and places his headphones over his ears.

She huffs and turns back to the front. Her eyes fall on the blond candidate onstage.

She doesn't know how she's missed it before, but he's shaking. Strands of blond hair stick to his face, and the hand holding his instrument trembles; he looks about ready to crash. And at one point, he even lurches forward before stumbling to catch himself.

But in the next split second, the exhaustion is wiped clear from his face, and his back snaps upright as he stammers something Mikan can't hear. There's more bits of quiet conversation, and before she can blink, he's bowing quickly and walking offstage like demons are chasing his heels.

Mikan wonders what the judges had said to him, but her question is answered in the next instant when an announcement goes up overhead.

"_Attention all candidates: please ensure that your audition pieces do not exceed three and a half minutes. Thank you."_

_Oh, _Mikan thinks faintly. _So that's what it was._

As the announcement fades out, dead silence weighs in the air. Mikan counts a second, two, then three, before a flurry of panicked whispers erupts in the auditorium.

Mikan is fairly sure that her own piece doesn't exceed the time limit, but she doesn't exactly recall seeing one in the first place. Heck, she doesn't even remembering seeing it on the school website.

Mikan shrugs to herself. _Better safe than sorry. _

She flickers back and forth between searching the song on Youtube or humming her song straight through to check for the time. Instead, she ends up drumming her fingers anxiously on the screen as she waits for her phone to turn on.

A shadow passes over her.

"Are you good for your piece, newbie, or do you think you need to cut it?"

Mikan's not ashamed to admit that she almost bursts into tears at the thought of cutting her song—she's mastered it the way it is, dammit, there is_ no_ way she's cutting it. Mikan restrains herself though, and instead looks up to find two students peering over at her phone.

One of them is a thin guy wearing striped hoodie and a green beanie, and—is that a tattoo of a star on his cheek? He looks at her with a huge, playful grin that carries undertones of all sorts of mischief, and she thinks that it wouldn't be far-fetched to say that he lost a bet with that tattoo.

The girl next to him has a vibe to her that Mikan can only describe as "cool," with a hand on her hip and her head held high with confidence. She isn't even offset by the fact that her hair is _pink,_ a fact that has Mikan envious.

The only way Mikan knows they're students is the fact that even in the suffocating air of the auditorium, they seem completely at ease.

Lucky them.

The guy with the beanie breaks Mikan out of her reverie when he glances at her phone, clucking his tongue. "You've got an ancient phone, newbie," he says. "I don't think you'll be able to turn it on before it's your turn to go up." A grimace twists his lips. "Plus, I think you forgot to charge it."

_What?_

Mikan looks down at her phone just in time to see it flicker uncertainly before blinking out. A wave of horror and dread washes over her.

No.

No, no, _no!_

_This can't be happening—_

Her teeth sink down on her lip hard as she taps rapidly at her phone. Her fingers press down on the power button again and again, willing the screen to turn on once more. _Come on,_ she urges it desperately, w_ork, you stupid thing!_

Nothing happens.

All the tension drains out of her shoulders. Mikan collapses into her chair, blood pounding loud in her head. She can't even check the time limit because she forgot to charge it? Of all things, how could this happen _now—_

And to her utter mortification, Mikan can feel a prickling in her eyes, tears soon clouding her vision.

Not only does her phone refuse to work because she forgot to charge it like the idiot she is, but the two seniors in front of her are going to see her cry because she's so goddamn _stupid. _

Mikan presses the palm of her hands to her eyes, trying to hold back her tears. She's not a baby, dammit. She refuses to act like one. Mikan has to take responsibility for the fact that she's such an idiot and find some way to—to—

_The students. _

She doesn't even know their names, but at this point, they're her last hope. Mikan turns towards them pleadingly. "Do you have something that I can use to search my song up?" she asks, desperation lining her voice. "Anything will do, just—I just need to search my song up real quick, it'll only be a couple seconds, I swear—"

She stops when the girl shushes her, making a calming motion with her hands. "It's okay, it's okay. You can use my phone." She fishes her phone out of her blazer pocket, unlocks it, and passes it over to her with an easy grin. "Take as long as you need. Don't worry about us."

Mikan releases her breath and almost goes boneless with relief as she takes the phone with trembling hands. "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much," she whispers. "It'll only be like twenty seconds, I promise."

The girl leans back in her chair. "Sure thing."

Only a few seconds pass as Mikan searches the length of her song, but it's enough for her to hear the hisses coming from her side.

"—think you're doing, terrifying the kid like that, we weren't supposed to make them _cry_—"

"I was just screwing around! I didn't think she'd take it so seriousl—_ack_—"

The screen freezes. Sighing, Mikan lays the phone on her lap, and she turns to glance at the two students, just to make sure they're okay.

The girl is still smiling at her, so that's good. Mikan returns the smile before her gaze drifts.

The male student, on the other hand…

He's locked in a chokehold. Not so good.

"Um," Mikan starts tentatively, "are you alright?"

"Just dandy," the male student gasps out, tapping weakly at the offending arm. "I'm fine, thank y—Misaki, let go—_Misakithat'smywindpipe—_"

Mikan presses her lips together, debating whether or not to press the issue because _damn, _what a dangerous shade of blue that is, and—wait. Didn't he just mention something about his windpipe? Startled, Mikan moves to help him, but the student grins feebly at her and waves it off. He even gives her a thumb-up.

Mikan's utterly unconvinced, but it seems like he has it under control—sort of?—so nodding uncertainly, she turns back to the phone the moment the page finishes loading.

The page is all about her audition song. Christina Perri, yup, A Thousand Years, yup, et cetera, et cetera. All of this she knows, so where's the information she's looking for, dammit—

Mikan scrolls hastily through the page before coming to a sudden stop.

_Time_—3:12.

Ah.

There it is.

Mikan feels a victorious shout building in her throat—it's _not _over three and a half minutes, thank _god, _she doesn't have to cut it after all—and just in time, she restrains it and replaces it with a quiet squeal.

"What's up?"

Mikan looks up. Thankfully, the girl—Misaki has released the boy for the time being, but Mikan peers behind her to see him almost dry heaving on the floor, all the while slapping weakly at a chair.

"Um, are you—"

"Fine," he chokes out, giving her another thumbs-up. "I'm okay—_ack_—thanks."

"Right," Mikan says, still unconvinced, but she turns back to Misaki regardless and hands her the phone. "So my song's not over the time limit."

Misaki grins. "Well, that's good. You don't have to cut it, then."

Mikan nods, beaming. "Yeah, it's a huge relief. The part I was worried about was the cutting. I don't even have the slightest clue on how to do that."

Misaki raises an eyebrow. "You do realize that we're students of this school?" She jerks a thumb at the hacking-a-lung-out guy. "The idiot over there, Tsubasa, he's useless on most days, but anything involving mixing, rearranging, and cutting music—he's your man."

Mikan blinks. "Oh," she says. "Well, that's good to know."

Tsubasa pops behind Misaki's shoulder, looking somewhat better without the shade of asphyxiation in his cheeks. He squints at Mikan. "What's your name, newbie?"

"Mikan," she says. "Nice to meet you."

Tsubasa pokes at Misaki's arm and grins. "Look, Misaki. This one's polite."

Misaki slams an elbow into his gut without looking. Ignoring his cry of pain, she asks, "What are you auditioning for, anyway?"

Mikan casts a worried glance at Tsubasa, but again he gives her a thumbs-up. It seems he'll recover.

Shrugging, Mikan turns back to Misaki. "I'm planning on going into the vocal program," she answers with an embarrassed smile.

"Really?" Misaki asks. She and Tsubasa exchange knowing glances before Misaki turns back to her. "Damn newbie, that's a tough program to get into."

Mikan's face colors. _She knows._ "The thing is…I have family that works here, and they used to take me here to see performances when I was little. And they—the performers—they were magical. I'd never heard anything like them. I used to think they were angels."

She laughs to herself quietly at the memory. A part of Mikan even thinks her uncle took her to those performances on purpose, just so she'd try to go to his school. Mikan shrugs. "I've wanted to be one of them ever since, so here I am, I guess."

Misaki and Tsubasa blink at her in unison. "That's…" Tsubasa begins.

A huge grin spreads on Misaki's face. "That's pretty cool, newbie. Gotta respect that."

Tsubasa starts to nod in agreement, but then his eyebrows furrow. "Wait, did you say that you have family that—"

He's suddenly cut off by the sound of music blaring, and all of them turn to see the next audition already being performed on stage.

Out of some unspoken respect, they stop talking and sit down, keeping their eyes on the audition instead of each other. After about thirty seconds, Mikan's eyes narrow. She can't exactly call herself an accurate judge for dancing; all she has to go on are lessons that she took when she was much younger and stopped after one too many falls on her face. But…the best dancers she's seen move as if they're weightless, as if they have perfect command over their bodies and how it moves.

This dancer is leagues ahead of Mikan as it is, but he definitely doesn't move the way Mikan expects great dancers to.

And then, one of the judges raises their hands. The music stops.

Alarmed, she turns to Misaki and Tsubasa behind her. "What's going on?" she hisses.

The both of them have grim looks on their faces, and Misaki's lips have even gone white at the edges.

"Take a look," Tsubasa says, voice flat.

She does, and she's treated to a sight that makes her stomach curl. The person who had just auditioned is shaking, holding his arms at his elbows as if he's trying to hold himself together even though he's falling apart. She watches, paralyzed, as tears begin to streak his cheeks. She wishes she was closer to the stage so that she could know why; she can't hear a thing so far back in the auditorium.

Mikan stares as the dancer slowly breaks down further. He nods at a question Mikan can't quite make out, and then a male judge speaks out. Even though she can't tell what he's saying, she can tell that his tone is harsh, and Mikan's eyes go wide. The judge is barely finished before the dancer turns away and runs backstage, sobbing so loudly that it reverberates through the whole room.

A silent heavy silence hangs in the air.

"What just happened?" Mikan asks, bringing a shaky hand to the armrest. She twists around back to Misaki and Tsubasa; neither of them look very happy.

"That's what happens when the judges are assholes," Tsubasa answers darkly. "Some of them don't know the difference between criticism and verbal assault."

Mikan's mouth opens and closes, but she has nothing to say to that. Only sheer panic starts to form in her throat. What if she ends up being as bad as that dancer? What if the judges decide to kick her out too?

An image comes to Mikan's mind: her going home on the train tonight, crying her eyes out and wondering what she's going to tell her parents because the judges hated her performance. Suddenly, Mikan feels sick.

In front of her, Misaki grimaces. Her eyes are still on the dark sliver between the curtain and the back of the stage, but then they turn back to Mikan and whatever she sees makes them soften in sympathy.

"Mikan, I'm sure you'll be fine—"

All of them hear a snort, making Misaki stop abruptly. Tsubasa whirls around to see the source, and Misaki follows suit with a dark scowl forming on her face.

The jerk from earlier hasn't moved from his spot. His red eyes cut into Mikan with so much indifference that she's taken aback for a moment. He rests his chin on his hand, and says in a bored drawl, "If your singing is anything like what I heard earlier, sweetheart, you're fucking screwed."

Before Mikan can even say anything—_tear into him like a tiger on a piece of bloody meat_—Misaki literally _growls_. "Who the fuck are you?"

Natsume raises his eyebrow at her, and his mouth opens as if he's about to say something, but then he's interrupted by an announcement.

"_Candidates #33 to #40, please report backstage. I repeat, Candidates #33 to #40, please report backstage._"

"Leaving, apparently." With a smirk on his face, he flashes them the number on his chest—he's #34, a couple numbers before Mikan.

_Damn._

He gets up and walks away before any of them can get a word in edgewise. Mikan inwardly seethes, resisting the urge to flip the bird at his back. Outwardly, she sighs and stands up tall, doing her best to put on a brave face in front of Misaki and Tsubasa.

"Well, that's my cue," Mikan says, gesturing to the #37 on her chest.

The two upperclassmen are clearly still bothered by that jerk—Misaki has even muttered a few expletives under her breath—but that doesn't stop them from sending her encouraging smiles.

"Break a leg, newbie," Tsubasa says with a wink.

Misaki adds, "Here's some advice, Mikan." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Keep practicing how you're going to perform in your head. It gives you a map to follow when you're actually up there. You'd be surprised how well it works."

Mikan blinks. Raises an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. It sounds strange, but she guesses she's heard stranger things. Shrugging, Mikan says, "Thanks!"

She turns to leave, but then Misaki stops her when she says, "Wait!"

Confused, Mikan faces them again.

"Give that jerk a good punch in the face for me, would you?" Behind her, Tsubasa nods in agreement.

It's Mikan's turn to smile conspiratorially. "No worries about that," she says. "I already slapped him."

* * *

_Okay, practice in your head, practice in your head._

Mikan takes a deep breath and goes over her lyrics for what must be the thirtieth time.

She's standing amongst a group of people, waiting for her turn to audition. Each second that passes by turns her stomach to stone; there's a pit in her stomach twists and turns and burrows into her bones with desperate fervor, growing more intense by the second.

'_You're done for,_' her mind supplies helpfully.

Panic starts rising in her chest, and Mikan folds her hands over it. For security? Maybe she's trying to keep herself from falling apart, just like that dancer, and thinking about that moment only makes things worse. Her mind feels like it's turning into a bumbling mess. With a flood of horror, she realizes that she can't even remember the words to her song anymore.

The world shakes. Or maybe it's just her.

Mikan shuts her eyes hard and searches deep for something, anything to calm her down—

And finds it in a place that comes as no surprise to her.

Hotaru's song starts flitting past her lips.

The effect is immediate: her lungs no longer feel like collapsing, and her feet feel steady under her, so that the 'earthquake' effect is gone.

Once Mikan feels strong enough to open her eyes, she does—to the least welcoming sight of all time.

That stupid, _stupid_ jerk is—is laughing at her! Actually, he's just looking her up and down with an amused smirk on his face, but the effect is somehow still the same. Perhaps if she was in a slightly better mood, Mikan wouldn't feel such _anger _coursing through her, but as it is, the smirk only serves to ignite a raging fire.

"What's so funny?!" Mikan spits venomously.

"You look like you'd fall over if I so much as poked you." He shrugs. "It's almost hilarious. Pathetic, but hilarious all the same."

Mikan takes a page out of Misaki's book and growls at him. "Are you even a good singer or dancer, or whatever you are?"

"Dancer, actually," he says. "And yes. I'm better than what you'll ever be, if that answers your question."

Mikan's fists clench at her sides, itching to sail through the air to reacquaint themselves with his face. "I hope you break a leg for real."

"If it's anything like your singing, I'm sure I will."

"You_ jerk—" _Mikan begins, but she's yet again interrupted by another announcement.

"_Candidate #34 onstage, I repeat, Candidate #34 onstage."_

There's a short pause as he stops to take this in, and then he turns to smirk at her. "Well," he says, "wish me luck, sweetheart."

And before she can say anything, he's gone.

His footsteps echo as he makes his way across the stage with slow, confident steps. The glare of the spotlight follows him until he reaches the center of the stage, shoulders relaxed and arms hanging freely by his sides. He looks completely at ease, that jerk—there's not even a trace of fear or anxiety in him that she can detect.

Tearing her gaze away with an exasperated huff, Mikan cranes her head around to look at the judges. There are five judges as far as she can see. The first one, the closest to her and on the far right end of the table, wears their blond hair in a loose ponytail, clad in a silky white button-down. With their slim shoulders, she guesses the judge is a girl, right up until _he _lifts his head to reveal angular features and a sharp jawline.

_Oh._

The second judge beside him could be his twin sister. They have the same blond hair, the same pale skin, and the same feeling of fragility in their appearance. But unlike the first judge, she moves with a grace and elegance that he doesn't quite match up to.

_A dancer, _Mikan thinks.

It seems fitting.

Her gaze moves to the third judge. With all the beauty and charm from the first two, Mikan's grown to expect something similar of the rest. Instead, the third judge is nothing fragile or delicate.

He's refined, sure—she'd even go as far as to say _sophisticated, _but he's not alluring like they are. He's a got a pair of glasses perched on a thin, straight nose, and his dark hair is arranged in neatly around his face. His fingers are spinning a pen impatiently, a set scowl twisting his lips.

Mikan has a feeling that that's the judge she'll dread talking to the most.

The remaining judges she can't see too well, much to her frustration, but she's barely able to make out a loose blue shirt and a mop of hair that's either brown or gray for the fourth judge. The last judge she can't see at all.

Mikan slides back in the shadow of the curtain again as the third judge starts to speak.

"Natsume Hyuuga. Age sixteen, specializes in hip-hop."

"Yes, sir," the jerk—_Natsume _says, with a voice just as clipped as the judge's.

It's too easy to imagine the judge's scowl becoming more pronounced; and as if the image comes true, Mikan can sense a note of hostility in his voice when he asks,"Why do you want to enter this school, Mr. Hyuuga?"

To his credit, Natsume doesn't even hesitate a beat. "It's a prestigious academy," he says. "Anyone who graduates here ends up as a skilled dancer who's able to do things that most dancers can only imagine." He shrugs. "I want to be one of those skilled dancers—and Alice Academy's the easiest way to help me get there."

There's a quiet moment as the judges takes in his answer.

"Then," a different, smoother voice says after a beat, "what exactly do you like about dance?"

This time, Natsume pauses in thought before a smirk tilts his lips. "I could show you better than I could tell you."

Mikan peeks through the curtain just in time to see a slow grin spread on the first judge's lips. "Fair enough. Show us what you've got."

It feels like there's a second where everything is still; she sees Natsume's shoulders rise and fall in a steady breath, his eyes fluttering closed, and his body settles into the first position of his choreography as he takes a step back. A beat of silence passes before his audition song filters through the speakers. There's maybe a split second gap before Mikan recognizes it as Hotaru's song, the one she was humming earlier.

Mikan's struck speechless with the sheer amount of incredulity she feels. _He chose this song,_ she thinks, torn between disbelief and wonder. Then the moment ceases, and she's back to incredulity with a scoff. _No matter how good his answers were, he won't be able to pull this off._

Mikan knows the fast beats of the song like the back of her hand. The quick rhythm alone is a clear indication that the song isn't easy to dance to, and Mikan, who has watched countless videos of people attempting to cover it, knows it better than anyone. It's a song full of opportunity and golden chance, but that's exactly why it's so difficult.

She senses the second phrase of the song coming up in only a couple more moments, and she knows when the repeating beginning will end—she knows when to expect the start of his dance.

And as soon as the music slows down to a low buzz, it starts rising in volume just as fast, a steady beat beginning to form behind the lone guitar. The moment the first real beat hits, he starts moving.

Mikan can't stop her jaw from falling.

It's like one moment he's standing still, foot tapping languidly at the floor in perfect time with the beat, but in the next, he's flying into motion. He starts off with two body rolls that seems slow and sensual even with the fast rhythm, like he's warping the very song itself with his moves. The first one flows down the length of his body in a way that makes Mikan's cheeks heat, while the second practically _ripples_ from his shoulders to his hips and all the way down to his legs.

His dance is crisp and clean, without any extra motions that get in the way. Mikan doesn't know what he does to pull it off, but somehow he manages to time everything so that every move he takes, it falls perfectly on time with the beat.

It's clear to Mikan that Natsume aces footwork. When he jumps, he lands right on the staccato rhythm of the drums before transitioning into quick, distinct motions of his feet. Mikan can't help but envy how_ effortless_ dance seems to him. He changes his point of balance like snap of the fingers, walking confidently across the stage before coming to a sudden stop, whirling around as if his body weighs nothing.

God knows she hates the jerk and his terrible personality, but he's such a damn good dancer that she can't help but lean forward to watch.

But then, but _then_—

His gaze flicks up to meet her eyes. As if in slow motion, the corner of his lips tilt up into a smirk.

"_Having fun?" _His eyes seem to be saying, smirk _reeking _of arrogance.

Mikan's struck so speechless that she can't do anything but splutter wordlessly as he turns away. The moment he faces the audience, the rhythm begins to slow; attuned to the song and its beat, Natsume slows as well. While seconds earlier he was doing things that she's only seen famous dancers do, he abruptly pulls himself to a robotic stop, torso jerking once before stilling.

A beat passes, and then another.

And without warning, the music comes back in a sudden rush, volume reaching its peak. Unfreezing himself, Natsume wrenches himself back just as the beat returns with a crash. His steps are wide and purposeful as he moves forward, matching the song's crescendo with movements that only increase with speed; and with one last spin, Natsume's audition—_performance_—is over.

Mikan hates how her hand twitches as if it's about to clap, but she hates how she's utterly breathless even more.

The tension bleeds out of Natsume's body, and everything is still during that time. Then the blond judge from earlier breaks the silence by saying, "Well." He stops himself with a blissful sigh. "I think you showed us why you love dance, alright."

Natsume's expression doesn't change, but his lips twitch as if he's repressing a smile. "Thank you."

The judge huffs indignantly. "All of these short answers!" he cries. "You're such an expressive dancer—but where did it all _go?!"_

Mikan chokes in her attempt to stifle her laughter.

A snort. "For god's sakes, Narumi," a different voice says dryly. "Just go back to the questions."

"Then ask the questions yourself, if you dislike my dramatics that much!"

"_Fine,_ maybe I will. You suck at this anyway."The voice sighs, and ignoring Narumi's cries of protest, he continues on with the interview. "Mr. Hyuuga, it's clear that you like to dance, but just to clarify, do you think you could tell us why it's your passion?"

Natsume releases a slow breath. A flicker of hesitation crosses his face. "Honestly," he says, "I think my dancing has told you more than I ever could."

_I think my dancing has told you more than I ever could. _

And dammit, Mikan_ knows_ he's being truthful because she can recognize his way of dancing—she sees it in herself when she sings.

It's that unrestrained way of performing, the freedom of it so sweet when she _feels_ the music in her heart, and that's something they both share. She can give everything she has into her singing, throw herself into it when words aren't enough to express what she's feeling, and it's—

It's exactly as Natsume had said.

"_I think my dancing has told you more than I ever could."_

Mikan loathes to admit it, but somewhere inside her—a very, very _small_ part—is impressed with his answers, and even more with the way he performs.

Mikan snaps out of her thoughts as the judges wrap up his audition. "—ank you," Natsume is saying, giving the judges a short nod, and then he starts making his way back to the curtains.

A smattering of applause greets him the moment he crosses the threshold of the room. She can't bring herself to clap, but she watches quietly as he's patted on the back and congratulated.

She notices the fact that he's staring at her moments before he actually passes her, and that's when she begins to hold her breath once more. Mikan remembers how she had slapped him earlier—which she _really _shouldn't have done, no matter how angry she was—and she cringes to herself.

Natsume's steps halt to a stop beside her. Mikan turns her gaze up, and his crimson eyes are boring into her own as a lazy smirk curls his lips. "Good enough for you, sweetheart?"

Irritation flares in her heart at his condescending tone, but she squashes it down ruthlessly and forces herself to keep her voice level. "I never said that you were a bad dancer, you know."

"Oh, I know."

Mikan feels a frown forming on her face. "Then, why'd you say—"

He stops her with a simple shrug. "Because I wanted to let you know that I was better than you'd ever be." He smirks. "I think you got the message."

Mikan feels a scowl surfacing on her lips. "I can do just as well as you can," she says heatedly.

She slaps herself a second later in her mind. _Stupid, stupid, you stupid _idiot—

God, what is _with _her mouth whenever he's around? It's like all the filter she has between her mind and her mouth has disappeared, and now she's blurting out whatever thought comes to her head. He gets her angry enough to murder a man, sure, but that doesn't mean she has to _do _it.

_This is a disaster, _Mikan thinks, just as Natsume arches an eyebrow.

"Are you sure about that?"

And dammit, it's like everything he does while _existing _pisses her off. The smirk, the "sweetheart," the eyebrow raise—all of it irritates her to no end, and she can't control her words anymore. "_Positive," _Mikan grits out with a glower. "You can even watch, if you want to."

"And I'm sure I _don't_ want to," Natsume says and shoulders past her. "Good luck, sweetheart. Try not to trip and fall on your way to the stage."

Inhaling sharply, she turns away from him to face the stage, muttering, "I won't."

* * *

The auditions after Natsume's performance go by surprisingly fast, but every once in a while, Mikan will look up from her lyrics sheet to watch people audition for a few seconds.

There's a bass-and-drum duo that do a wonderful job in making her bob her head to the addicting beat, but the audition afterwards isn't so stellar. Mikan winces as the girl trills again, this time going sharp, and she can't help but think that the girl would be lucky to get in after her mishap.

Mikan stops listening to the girl mid-chorus. It'll just make her anxious, and that's never a good thing. While her intonation doesn't change too much with nerves, she _does_ end up lacking the power in her voice. She's heard recordings of herself singing; if she isn't tense or strung-up, her voice sounds _amazing. _

But looking at the stage with the girl who looks like she's about to burst into tears, Mikan's not sure that she'll manage to summon that power. With it, she's sure to get into the school. But without it—

"_Candidate #37 on standby. I repeat, __Candidate__ #37 on standby."_

Mikan stiffens, and her trembling begins again as she rises from her seat.

Without it, she's not sure that she'll get in at all.

And Mikan knows that she shouldn't allow herself in that mindset right before she goes onstage, but letting herself slip into the bad thoughts is easier than blocking them out. She remembers the glasses-wearing boy from earlier who had puked from the stress and anxiety, the first girl who crumpled onstage and ran off sobbing, and the other candidates waiting in the hall wondering if they'll get in.

It's them—all two thousand performers in that hall—against her.

It's the years worth of private lessons and tutoring and competitions pit against her, all their efforts and desperation and the chances they've grasped by the skin of their teeth.

Mikan started singing officially when she was eleven. What's that to three hundred, seven hundred, _a __thousand_people who've done it years before she did? How can she become one of the selected three hundred when the odds are against her, when they're looking beautiful and classy and she looks inadequate and lacking and _wrong_, what is _she _compared to everyone else—

_Stop, _Mikan thinks, _I need to stop._

But no matter how hard she tries, she can't stop her thoughts. They just keep running on, creating chaos in her frantic heart, forcing her gaze down, and—

_You started too late. You're not good enough. _

_You'll never be good enough._

And just like that, she's able to imagine herself a month or two later with a letter clutched in her hands.

_Stop._

The gold seal will no longer as promising as it used to be when she tears open the letter. This time it won't be open to the word _opportunity,_ but rather to _regret, apologies, we're sorry_. She'll throw herself into her mother's arms, the _almosts _and _maybes _and _should haves _bitter on her tongue as a wail tears itself out of her throat. It's easy to see all of that, because Mikan knows by the fear thick in her throat that it'll happen.

_Why couldn't I make it? _Mikan hears her future self cry, and the letter will crumple in her fist. _Why wasn't I accepted? Why wasn't I good enough—_

A shudder rips through Mikan as the image turns to stare at her, glassy-eyed and gaze dark with despair.

_Why weren't you good enough?_

Mikan's hands are shaking when she crosses the stage to stand in front of the judges, smack dab in the middle of the spotlight. The light is heated on her cheeks, but for once, she doesn't feel at ease in it. She can't see the view she longed to see before; all she sees in front of her is the blinding light and the darkness up ahead. She swallows. Her grip on the microphone is not secure in her sweaty hands.

She's a wreck, and oh _god, _how is she even going to get past this audition—

_Stop, _Mikan tells herself again. _I need to stop. I'm going to get through this, I'm going to calm down, and all I need is to just take a deep breath. _

She does so shakily, but nothing really happens. She tries it again. And again. And again. And again. By the time she works her way through her fifth inhale-exhale routine, her heart has settled down somewhat, but the thoughts are still circulating in her mind.

_Gold seal, regrets, don't let this happen_—

_I'll be good enough, _Mikan thinks firmly, and her grip on the mic feels a bit steadier now. _I _will _be good enough. _

It seems as if the judges can sense her nervousness, because they don't press her with questions like they had for the other candidates. It's amazing that they allowed this much time for her to gather her wits in the first place, but she's grateful for it nonetheless. All they do is confirm her name, age, and then she's off with a passing remark of, "Good luck" from one of the judges.

Mikan inhales as much as her lungs allow before releasing it again in one huge breath. The tension still hasn't left her shoulders, never mind her lungs—oh god, how is she going to _breathe_—but at least it doesn't feel like her heart is about to explode right then and there.

_I can do this, _she thinks, repeating the words to herself between the silence. _I can do this._

There's a few seconds where everything goes still, and then she hears the background track for her song going through the speakers.

Most of the song goes okay. She hits the notes and trills her voice when necessary, but to her dismay, she's so nervous that she can't muster up the power she normally has in her voice when she's at home. She _knows _her breathing is off, and she almost goes nasal while resisting the urge to close her eyes. Somehow she still makes it to the end without going flat or sharp, thank _goodness,_ but she's so disappointed in herself for not sounding her best that she blanks out for the first few minutes after her performance.

She sees the judge's lips moving. Mikan can tell that he's asking her something important, but it's like her ears are blocked. The words just fly right past, and she ends up missing the first question that the judges ask her.

Mikan blinks, forcing herself to snap out of her daze. "Sorry, what? I didn't hear that."

Judging by the way his face immediately darkens, it's the wrong way to answer. Mikan's not sure what terrible thing she's done, but he looks ready to murder as he asks, "Why did you decide to audition?"

At least that's easy enough to answer. "I love music," Mikan says. "I can't dance or play an instrument to save my life, but I love everything about it. It's like a way for me to express myself when I'm not able to, and that's one of the perks. Not to mention, my friends and family always love it when I sing. Heck, _I _love it more than anything else, so… So I guess I decided to audition."

Mikan scans the judges' faces for any sign of approval, but all she gets is a nod and some scribbling from the first two judges. And the third judge—

The third judge twitches. "You _guess?"_

Mikan nods uncertainly. "I guess, yeah."

If his expression was _borderline_ murderous before, it's_ for sure_ murderous now. "Young lady," he begins, "the Alice Academy of Music is not for people who come in with uncertainties like 'I guess'. It's not for people who sing to impress others, and it's certainly not for people who give half-hearted performances."

Mikan winces. She's not going to pretend that his comment didn't hurt, but it's not like_ everything _he said was true. She knows she isn't half-hearted about _anything _involving this audition—she's traveled nearly a hundred miles to get here, spent hundreds, if not thousands, on training her voice, and she's had to battle anxiety and nerves for the entire _day _just for this one moment.

But despite all of that, she performed anyway. Even if it wasn't her best, it was still _something, _and the fact that he can think less of her for using 'I guess'...

Well. Mikan can't help the little splutter of indignation that sparks in her heart.

"I know all of that without you having to tell me," she says, forcing herself to keep her voice calm and steady. "This place practically breeds fame and success in music—I know the students here can't achieve that by being half-hearted about anything. They spend a ton of money for lessons and tutoring, and give up their lives to studying and practicing music. Students here sacrifice so much just for a chance—I'd be stupid not to know that."

The judge raises his eyebrow, leaning forward. "Oh? So let's suppose for a second here, Ms. Mikan Sakura, that you _do _understand all of these sacrifices. If you understand, then tell me: what was with that terrible singing from earlier?"

"It wasn't _terrible_—"

"But you're speaking from a biased perspective," he interrupts. He looks down at his desk, a scowl forming on his face. "From what I wrote here, your voice had no power, no volume variation, and no sense of emotion whatsoever. However terrible your choice for an audition song was, the lyrics are supposed to convey yearning and love. You, on the other hand, conveyed your desire to get the audition over with."

Mikan's mouth opens, closes, and opens again. "I—I didn't—"

The judge cuts her off with a sneer. "Your performance," he says, "was no better than a preschooler's with how far it fell from my expectations."

_A preschooler's?_

Mikan flushes. "I know it was a bad performance!" Her heart begins to hammer painfully in her ribs. "I was just nervous because it was my first time performing in such a big auditorium, _but—"_

"First time, you say." He scoffs derisively. "Did you know that most singers have to adapt to new stages almost every day? But regardless of nerves or 'first times', they're expected to pull off perfect shows."

"I—"

"In the music industry, you adapt or you die; to them, nerves do not matter. The second you go flat, you'll be kicked out without any pay."

"That's—"

"There are no second tries. There are no excuses." He pins her with a cold gaze. "And your determination, Ms. Mikan Sakura, is _weak _if you think you should be an exception to that."

Mikan's mouth drops open, and she stares at the judge in wordless shock.

He leans back, satisfied.

A few seconds pass in silence. But when Mikan finally manages to get her voice back, the first thing she blurts out is an incredulous, "Are you _kidding_ me?"

The judge leans forward again and narrows his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

She has to muster every last ounce of restraint she has to keep from shouting; her voice ends up sounding carefully controlled. "I'm sorry for being rude," Mikan starts, the faintest of tremors lining her words, "but I am fully aware of the consequences in not performing up to your standard. You're completely right—there are no excuses, no second chances, and nobody knows that better than I do. It _was _stupid of me to call on nerves as an excuse.

"But," she continues, "that's still no reason to compare my performance to a preschooler's when it didn't warrant the insult, or to make false assumptions about me and call my determination weak. You've known me for three _minutes_; you haven't seen the most of my determination or even my personality to make conclusions. You call my tell me that my performance was like a preschooler's, but—"

And with a start, Mikan can't help but remember Natsume's words from earlier.

"_I'd like to ask you,_ _sweetheart_—"

"Who's the more immature one here?" Mikan asks.

The judge's pen hits the table with a loud crack. Mikan doesn't flinch. Her heart is thudding loud in her throat, but she manages to keep a level gaze as his lips curl into an expression of pure contempt.

"Young lady," he snarls. "You _dare_—"

"Enough, Jinno." Mikan whips her head to the side to see the blond man from earlier speaking, a small frown on his face. "We're testing them on their determination. We are not judging them on their attitude. She's under my program—you don't have the rights to accurately judge on her singing."

"Narumi, you—"

"You judge only her resolve, and you saw it for yourself. She has the resolve to speak her mind and defend her singing even against an authority figure."

"_Narumi—"_

Narumi's frown disappears without a trace, and a gentle smile appears in its stead. "Jinno," he says, "let me handle this."

And to Mikan's amazement, Jinno nods and sits back in his chair.

Mikan doesn't notice Narumi's gaze shifting to her until he calls her name. "Ms. Mikan Sakura."

As if on instinct, Mikan's back straightens. "Y-yes sir," she stammers.

She doesn't think it's possible, but Narumi's smile turns a touch kinder. "Your singing was remarkable, Ms. Mikan Sakura."

Her heart skips a beat.

"Although it lacked the power that could've been added to enhance the emotion of the song, you still delivered in a way that was enjoyable and pleasant. You have no problems reaching high or low notes, but I suggest that you try controlling your breathing next time, so you can keep those notes flowing."

Through the loud rush of blood pounding in her head, Mikan manages to grasp only a few of his words—_breathing, power, got it_—but on his last sentence, Mikan's breath catches.

_Next time? _

Mikan thinks back to a couple hours earlier when she was wandering around campus, wondering about what could get her in. Natural talent or hard work—that was all a load of bull, and she knew that. And even now, she can't say for sure what will get her in, but hearing the words _next time _coming from the judge_, _it erases the _maybes _and _could've beens _that have been lingering in her mind.

Instead, _next time _sounds like _opportunity._

_We look forward to seeing what talents you have to offer_—

Narumi's gaze softens. "You'll be getting your results by mail in two months. Thank you for your time, Ms. Mikan Sakura."

* * *

Mikan stumbles onto the train with what seems like tremendous effort to her lethargic limbs. She somehow manages to find an empty seat and stagger her way over, going boneless once she hits the seat.

People are sending her looks. Some are sympathetic, some are not, but at this point, Mikan's so tired that she can't even muster up the energy to care.

Her shoulders sag against her the walls of the train, her head bobbing down to her chin. And amidst the cloud of exhaustion fogging her mind, she manages to think, _I wonder if I'll get in._

Mikan prays to eight gods and then some, but that's all she can manage before her eyes fall closed to blissful sleep.

* * *

_March 7th_

_Ms. Mikan Sakura,_

_Upon much consideration of your audition on January 26th, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for admission to the __Vocal__Music__Program__ at Alice __Academy__ of __Music__. _

_Enrollment at Alice __Academy__ is a chance to join a community of globally respected performers and artists in an education that will both excite and challenge you. Your admission is based on the strongest recommendations of the five judges present at your audition, and they would like to extend to you their greatest encouragement of joining us in the fall._

_If you have any questions regarding the school or this offer of admission, do not hesitate to __contact__ Principal Yukihara. Mr. Narumi, head of the __Vocal__Music__Program__, would be happy as well to answer any questions concerning the __program__. _

_A response from you regarding your acceptance of this offer of admissions is required on or before May 16. __Contact__ for registration can be done by email or mail, using the enclosed letter. _

_We congratulate you on your acceptance, and look forward to welcoming you to Alice __Academy__ of __Music__ in the fall._

_Sincerly, _

_Kazumi Yukihara,_

_Principal of Alice __Academy__ of Arts._

* * *

A/N: Hello, readers! I'm Rinail of Stars in Brilliance, and I'm here with our first story, Chasing Music! I do hope you've enjoyed the first chapter as tears of blood were cried out and three limbs were broken (not really) in the making of it.

We'll be try to update on a weekly basis, so expect to see us in the archive often! Please note that this was written rather hastily, so I haven't gotten a chance to revise as extensively as I would've liked. There might be some revisions going on after the chapter is posted, just as a warning.

For those of you who don't know, Stars in Brilliance is a joint collab project with three authors: Topaz Tsubasa, Unknown Pain, and me (Rinail). The writing order for the chapters will rotate with me, Unknown Pain, and Topaz Tsubasa, so the writing styles may change on a chapter-to-chapter basis, but we'll try our hardest to make the flow of the story as smooth as we can. That's it for this chapter, and I hope you'll stick around for the next one!

-Stars in Brilliance


	2. Pink Pancakes and Blue Sandwiches

**Note:** This chapter was written by _Unknown Pain_, with the aid of _Rinail _and _Topaz Tsubasa._

* * *

**Chapter 2: Pink Pancakes and Blue Sandwiches**

"You sure you don't need to pack anything else?"

"Dad."

"I mean, maybe your entire closet wasn't enough—we should probably try to fit the whole of _Mt. Fuji_, since you're so bent on bringing so much _stuff_—"

"Dad!"

Izumi Sakura yanks her fifty-pound suitcase out of the back of the car with a great heave. The moment it hits the ground, he huffs and fixes her with an annoyed stare. "Why didn't you just let us ship your things?"

Mikan pats the slightly smaller, forty-three pound suitcase at her side. "Because Hotaru said this would cost less."

"Well, I don't see _Hotaru_ here, pulling along these goddamn suitcases," her dad grumbles under his breath.

"Language!" Mikan scolds.

Her dad gives her a deadpan look. "I don't see how 'goddamn' is worse than your… what was it, an 'absolute pancake'?"

"Dad, it was _one time!"_

He chuckles, reaching over to ruffle her hair. "But you still said it to a complete stranger, which I have to admit, as your father, makes me a bit proud."

Mikan huffs. "Fathers don't encourage swearing from their innocent daughters."

Her dad grins wryly and wags his finger at her. "Ah, but you're forgetting that we only encourage _creative _swearing." He starts to lug her suitcase behind him. "And Miks, I don't know about you, but I don't see any innocent daughters around here."

If Mikan could lift her suitcase, she'd whack her dad with it, but as it is, she can only settle for dragging it behind her and slapping at his arm with one hand once she catches up to his long strides. "I'll have you know that I _redefine _innocent, thank you very much."

"Says Miss Useless Little Paperclip."

"_Dad!"_

"I'm just saying, creative swearing is always a fun pastime. Anyway, my so-called innocent daughter—"

"Dad, I swear I will commit _patricide_—"

"—where is this elusive dorm?" Izumi asks, completely ignoring her comment. "Are there any maps around here?"

Mikan shrugs. "They offered a tour in the summer, but because _someone _was too busy dragging their daughter on another business trip, I never got to see anything."

"I said I was sorry!" Her dad sighs. "Heaven knows I love you, dear, but do you really have to be so demanding all the time?"

Mikan scowls. "_Anyway,_" she says, perhaps a touch too loudly, "I think I see a map-board thing over there."

Izumi nods. "Alright, to the map-board thing we go."

The two of them weave through a group of students and parents alike to get to the map. It's at times like these that Mikan thinks her father's height comes to use; he easily parts the crowd with a polite, "Excuse me, sorry" and soon enough the two of them are in front of the board.

Izumi's eyes sweep across the map. "You said the first building, right?"

"That's what the letter said." Mikan pokes at her father's ribs to get a closer look, disregarding his wince. "Although maybe if we were here for the summer tour, you would've known that."

"I already apologized _five times!"_

Mikan hides a grin as she swivels on her heel, dodging stray elbows to make her way through the crowd. "Come on, old man!" she calls. "Don't want you getting arthritis over there!"

"For god's sakes, Mikan, I'm only thirty-seven!"

A laugh breaks free from her throat as she runs to the direction of her dorm building, the sound wild and loose when she sees that her dad is chasing her like a madman, panting and heaving all the way.

Her laughter is abruptly cut off the moment she faces forward again. Mikan doesn't know how she missed it before, she really doesn't, but there are two _huge _staircases that lead up to the main doors. With the weight of her suitcase tugging at her hand, the staircases seem more like the Himalayas than concrete blocks.

Mikan catches her dad's wheezing a few steps behind her, but that too comes to a stop when he stands beside her. "Wow," Izumi says, sounding a little winded. "Those are some impressive stairs."

Mikan nods, mouth still refusing to work. But then the thought of her having to climb those staircases _alone _come to her, and she turns to her dad with a pleading look. "You're gonna help me get my luggage up those stairs, right?"

His gaze flickers to her, to the staircase, to her, and then back to the staircase. Mikan already knows what's going to happen before it does, but her hopes are crushed nonetheless the moment her dad checks his nonexistent watch.

Izumi winces. "Ah, about that. I forgot to tell you, darling, but it seems like I have an appointment with your grandmother. Which _unfortunately _happens to be right now."

Mikan turns to stare at him. "Dad. Grandma's been dead for _six years _now."

Instead of replying, he just laughs nervously and plunks her suitcase down on the ground. He presses a wet smack on her forehead, and ignoring Mikan's cry of disgust, he proceeds to wrap her in a tight hug before letting go. "I really do love you, darling, but Grandma is waiting, and I _really _can't miss that appointment. I love you, stay safe, use protection, and I'll see you in a few months, Mikan!"

He hightails it out of there before Mikan can even process the latter half of his sentence, leaving her spluttering as she stares at his retreating figure in the distance. She hears the faint sound of a car door slamming, and then he's gone with a screech of the tires and two honks.

Mikan releases an incredulous breath, but regardless she can't stop the stupid smile from tugging at her lips.

Same old Dad.

Sighing, Mikan stares at the two suitcases and wonders if it's too much to hope that they'll move by themselves. But alas, they sadly remain still and immobile, and she reaches down to grasp the handles.

Her gaze turns to the mountain of stairs looming above her, and with yet another sigh, she begins her trek to the academy.

But not even three minutes pass before:

"Sour pickle juice!"

Mikan curses under her breath as her luggage hits a snag in the sidewalk. She'd like to know what the hell possessed her to pack half her closet into two suitcases instead of being sensible and letting her parents ship her things bit by bit. Especially since the road to the dormitory slopes _upward._

With a tired huff and a great heave, Mikan finally tugs her suitcases in front of the entrance to the dormitory.

And stares.

_Is this it?_ she thinks, fingers twisting in her shirt anxiously. Looking at all of the people disappearing through the main doors, Mikan bites her lip. She checks the map she got a couple weeks ago for reassurance; this is the right place. She glances up at the sign that stands against the building between the stairs.

ALICE ACADEMY OF MUSIC DORMITORIES – BUILDING 1.

She can't actually be looking at a dormitory. The architecture is too modern—the bricks follow a vermillion, beige, and grey color scheme, for goodness' sake—and the entrance, lined by square columns, could be at home among fancy parliament buildings. The white sign stretches across the bricks like a huge banner, and the formality of the delicately painted words almost takes her breath away.

And—she whimpers—the entrance is elevated, and can only be accessed through staircases to the left or the right. A part of her wants to leave her suitcases here and search the outer length of the building for another entrance, until she realizes exactly how long the building is, and there's far too many people around for her to keep an eye on her luggage as she does.

But regardless, Mikan can't help but feeling like she's dreaming. She's one of the very few people who were lucky enough to be allowed here, to spend her time here, to even _sleep_ here, in the most beautiful and largest building she's ever seen.

Mikan wants to pinch herself.

A sudden rush of excitement runs through her. Heart hammering against her ribs and fingers gripping the handles of her suitcases, she climbs the nearest staircase at full speed, not about caring how stupid she looks, and Mikan makes her way inside the building.

Mikan stares around at her surroundings as she enters the lobby. It's spacious with a _gorgeous _interior; the wooden floor has been imprinted with the school logo, and the beige walls are decorated by several music-themed paintings and pictures of what Mikan guesses are either important people of the music industry or old students.

Lugging her suitcases behind her, Mikan makes her way to the receptionist desk. A middle-aged woman sits behind it, busy with what seems to be a towering pile of paperwork. She doesn't pay Mikan any attention, despite the fact that she's standing _right_ in front of the desk.

Mikan wonders if she should wait for the woman to be done, or if she should call to get her attention. She decides to go with the former and leans back on her leg to wait. But after entire _minutes _of waiting in silence and the woman still acting like she doesn't exist, Mikan changes her mind and clears her throat.

Twice.

The woman finally looks up with such a sour look that Mikan falters back a step. The woman's dark grey eyes are icy and narrowed, and there's no doubt that Mikan made her angry.

"Can I help you?" she asks, and man, even her _voice_ sounds like hell frozen over.

Mikan swallows. "U-um, yes. I am very sorry to bother you, but I'm a new student here and—"

"Ah, yes." The woman's expression softens in a heartbeat. "Of course. My apologies. What is your name, dear?"

The sudden change in her voice makes Mikan step forward again—albeit somewhat hesitantly—and lean against the desk. "Mikan Sakura."

The woman repeats Mikan's name under her breath a couple times as she flips through a sheaf of papers before pulling one out of the pile.

Mikan watches her read it before the woman stands up. "Just a moment," she says, and then she's gone. A moment or two passes, and the woman returns with a silver key and a smile.

Mikan has to wonder if this woman is moody like this regularly, or if she just has a soft spot for new students.

"Thank you for waiting, Ms. Sakura. Here is your key." The woman hands over the key, and Mikan can see that it, on closer inspection, has a black tag with a faint _#220 _on it.

The woman's voice snaps her out of the inspection. "Your room is on the second floor," she continues, sitting down. "Go through this hall and take the elevator on the right. There should be a sign in the hallway that says the dorm numbers; your room number should also be on the door—you can't miss it."

Mikan puts the key safely in her jean pocket and takes hold of her suitcase. Still somewhat wary of the woman's sudden change in attitude, she eyes the adult. "Thank you very much."

The woman smiles again. "You're welcome, dear. Congratulations on getting through the auditions."

And bam, it's like those are the magic words to get the smile to bloom on her face once more.

A warm sensation fills her chest, and she remembers the day she got the news—the kind of news she was positive she wasn't going to get because of how awful her audition went. She remembers her heart stopping when she read the sentence, "—_you have been selected for admission to the __Vocal_ _Music_ _Program_ _at Alice __Academy_ _of __Music" _before she exploded into loud squeals and screams, running to her parents' arms as she burst into tears. She remembers how relieved and happy she felt, how untouchable, how _strong_. Because she did it.

She was a part of it—she was _finally_ a part of something she could only _dream_ of years back.

_She freaking did it._

All traces of suspicion disappearing now, Mikan gives the woman a bright grin, thanks her once again, and heads to the direction of the elevator.

Mikan still can't believe that this is actually happening. Starting tomorrow, she's going to be a _student_ at _one of the best music schools in the world_! Butterflies appear in her stomach and dance around, and if it isn't for the huge amount of people in the lobby, she'd join the butterflies. She'd sing and scream even, all just to show her happiness.

She can't wait—she wants to hurry up. She wants check her sure-to-be-awesome room, call her friends and family, and tell them everything that she has seen.

With the way things are going now, Mikan is sure nothing can destroy her happiness.

She even skips her way to the elevator before reaching to press the glowing button, but her hand suddenly bumps into someone else's, and, as if she'd gotten stung by a bee, she quickly pulls it back.

"Sorry!" Mikan gasps, a faint blush dusting on her cheeks. She seriously needs to start checking her surroundings. Holding back the urge to sigh, she turns to the owner of the hand. "Really sorry, I didn't—"

She stops, her mind blanking out as she stares right into crimson eyes.

Oh, _hell _no.

All the dancing butterflies in her stomach are murdered in a single instant as she glares at the face of that—that jerk, Natsume, or… Natsumii.

Or Katsune. No, wait, was it Latsuna? Or maybe it's Sume.

Whatever the demon's name is, Mikan feels like she's being drained as a huge wave of negativity takes its place. She clutches at her suitcases.

It's obvious that Katsune—or was it Nume? Mikan can't remember—got through the auditions, which is no surprise because, although she hates to admit it, he was good. Amazing, even. But Mikan can't help but feel a little disappointed and wonder why he's here.

Next to her.

Ruining _everything._

Mikan glowers at him, hoping he would get the message and _go away,_ but Sume just rolls his eyes in exasperation and pushes the button for the elevator.

Mikan looks around to see if there's another elevator because there's no way she's going to share one with him, but to her huge disappointment, there isn't. She has no choice but to stay where she is and wait with him.

Mikan glances at him from behind her bangs. Natsumii faces forward, acting as though she doesn't exist.

_Well, good,_ Mikan thinks bitterly. _Makes it a lot easier to ignore him._

Then—

"Hey, Natsume!" someone calls, and the jerk—_so that's his name_—turns. Instinctively, Mikan does too and sees a blonde boy standing at the entrance of the lobby. She squints and could've sworn that she'd seen him before.

Wasn't he at the auditions as well?

"I'll be waiting for you outside!" the blonde boy calls.

Natsume gives him a brief nod before turning back to the elevator, and right at that moment_, _the door opens with a pleasant _ding. _Mikan turns back, but the boy Natsume was talking to has already disappeared. She faces forward just in time to Natsume step in. Mikan follows, wanting to press the button for the second floor, but Natsume beats her to it.

Mikan frowns. She doesn't like the fact that he's going to the same floor she is, but she bites back the urge to say something.

_Just ignore him,_ she tells herself as she shoulders past him, moving to the back of the elevator. _He's not worth your time._

The elevator ride is uncomfortable, the air around them heavy. Mikan wishes the elevator would hurry up so she can get the hell away from here—from him—and never see the jerk again.

She praises the gods and then some when the elevator finally stops and opens. Tugging her luggage behind her, she leaps out of the elevator and practically runs to the direction of where her dorm should be.

Relief washes over her, and Mikan can't help but smile. She dodged the bullet—barely, but she did. Mikan peers over her shoulder, hoping to see Natsume walking down the other side of the halls, away from her, away from her _life_, but—

Natsume is walking behind her.

_That bastard is walking behind her_.

Mikan stops dead in her tracks, and Natsume has to stop so he won't bump into her.

Mikan stares at him. "...What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he replies, voice cool and expression blank.

Mikan frowns at that. This isn't just '_nothing'._ The gnawing feeling in her gut is telling her that something is going on, but she has no idea what.

Mikan stares at him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed suspiciously as she searches for answers. But she can't find anything; his expression is so emotionless—Mikan wonders how he can muster such a blank face—that it gives absolutely nothing away. Even his eyes are blank with utter boredom.

Maybe she's just being paranoid. Maybe he really isn't doing anything and she's just being an idiot.

"Well, alright then," Mikan mutters at last and walks further.

She rounds the corner and enters a long, broad hallway that has doors on either side of the wall. Knowing that this is the hallway the woman was talking about—at least judging from the sign—Mikan quickly grabs her key out of her pocket, staring at the tag hanging from it.

"Room #220," she whispers to herself, repeating it until she finds the wooden door with a matching number.

She grins, her heart pulsing excitedly in her chest as she puts the key in the lock, trying to imagine what her room would look like. Before she opens it, though, she first looks to her side—she doesn't know why she does it, she just does—and—

Natsume is standing next to her.

Why the hell is he standing next to her?

Startled, Mikan jumps back and points at him. "What in th-the world—are you _stalking_ me?"

Natsume's eyebrows furrow as though he's been insulted. "No."

"_Then what are you doing here_?" Mikan shrieks. Multiple people turn to look at her, but she doesn't care. "We're not even in the same room! You shouldn't even be here unless I'm wrong and you actually have a room—" She pauses, and something clicks inside her mind.

_Don't tell me that we have to share a dorm,_ she thinks, suddenly noticing that Natsume isn't carrying any luggage with him. _Please don't tell me that we have to share. _

Her stomach clenches into a painful knot. "Hey," she starts slowly, "what room do you have?"

Not thinking, she reaches out to grab the silver key he's holding in his hand.

Natsume steps back and moves his hand away from her.

"Hey!" Mikan steps closer. "Come on, show me your key!"

Natsume still refuses to do so and puts the key so high into the air that it seems impossible for her to get it. But Mikan, _who is still not thinking_, doesn't want to give up so easily and stands on her toes, presses her chest against his, and reaches for the tiny object that dangles from his hand.

Half her mind is focused on the key, but at that exact moment, the other half switches to what she is touching. She can feel his muscles easily through the fabric of his white t-shirt, his warmth seeping into her own.

Mikan notices a golden earring with a tiny red ball hanging from his left ear and, having completely forgotten about the key, her gaze shifts to his face. She meets his crimson eyes that are staring right back at her, a glimmer of faint surprise showing from behind his messy bangs—

_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_ the voice in her head screams. _Get _away _from him, you stupid, stupid ashtray!_

Mikan blinks and jumps back. A sudden warmth expands in her chest—a warmth she definitely doesn't like—and she curses to herself, her face red.

"Ugh, fine, whatever," she grumbles and turns away from him, but she still manages to see that little mischievous smirk he flashes her.

The little fire inside her chest instantly turns into ice, and Mikan slams the door open.

She rakes a sweeping glance across the room. It's lovely, but Mikan hardly takes anything in as she scans it for evidence that Natsume is going to be her roommate. There's almost nothing here, much to her frustration, but then her gaze lands on the bed, and—

There.

She spots three large, expensive-looking suitcases across the room, and her stomach drops to her feet until she notices that the suitcases are a glittery green color. One of them has a cat and lipstick keychain hanging from the handle.

The suitcases looks like they belong to a _girl_.

Dumbfounded, Mikan stares at it for a while before she remembers Natsume, and she runs to the hallway.

"Hey—" she calls, but she stops when she sees that Natsume has taken his leave, walking to a door that's right across the hall. She blinks when he stops, puts his key in the door, opens it, and disappears.

It's then that it dawns on her.

He freaking lied to her.

Mikan grits her teeth. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!_ she thinks angrily, more to herself than to Natsume. She grabs her suitcases and throws it on the unoccupied bed on the left, before slamming the door behind her, the walls shivering for a little bit.

She's such a stupid pancake.

Mikan turns around and tries to find a way to distract herself. Her suitcases beckon at her side, but her mouth twists—she doesn't want to start the tedious task of unpacking just yet.

The only option she has left is exploring her new room. She looks to her left to see a little area that leads to a door. One of the walls in the area has a series of hooks above little cabinets and drawers; either for wet towels or for outerwear in the winter. She opens the cabinets for no reason, her mood growing better and better as she sees the empty space.

That space is for her. Her! And her roommate, but her too!

The drawers yield something much more interesting: a whirring mini-fridge, and an unplugged toaster oven sitting atop an equally unplugged microwave. A smile makes its way to her face. She can just imagine the countless hours of studying she'll spend with tubs of ice cream and bags of popcorn keeping her company.

A mindless tune humming from her lips, Mikan closes the drawer to open the other door. A nice, spacious bathroom lies beyond—and worryingly enough, there's an identical door right across from her. She's going to have to share her bathroom with three other people, not just one.

To her relief, aside from the standard lock on the doorknob, there's a door lock she can twist from the dorm room to prevent anyone from entering the dorm from the bathroom. Mikan files the information for later and gets back to the dorm.

Now she's back to wondering what she's going to do with her suitcases. At the right side of the room, there are two closets, and in between them is a desk connected to some drawers. At the left side of the room there are two beds, also separated by an identical desk-drawer combo. And the chairs propped against the desks have wheels! She squeals in delight, pulling out the one nearest to her and dropping on top of it, immediately using it to spin around in circles.

This is going to be _awesome_.

* * *

Mikan is lost.

It's the first day of school, and she wanders around the broad hallways of school, a map clutched in her hands. She's looking for her first class—11:00 Vocal Techniques—but she has no idea where she's going.

Mikan stares down at the map, realizing that she doesn't even know how to read it. So how can it help her find her way in this school?

She bites at her lip and looks around her. Students are busy in the halls, chatting amongst themselves as they pass by her without so much as a second glance. They all look like they know where they have to go.

Mikan turns back to her map, trying to read it one more time.

_Maybe it's better if you ask for directions,_ a gentle voice in her head says, and Mikan mentally shakes her head to it. She can feel eyes boring into her back and hear the soft laughter somewhere in the distance, making her heart pound and stomach churn uncomfortably.

She bites at her bottom lip again and tries to focus on reading the map as best she can. She's fine, Mikan tells herself. She doesn't need to ask directions—she's perfectly fine on her own.

Mikan turns a corner and stops in front of an open classroom. A relieved smile tugs at her lips when she looks up at the sign that hangs right above the entrance, a slight inkling telling her mind that this is it. But—

PIANO CLASS, the sign reads, and Mikan's smile fades, that little flutter inside her heart getting crushed as though with a stone.

How is this even possible? She's sure that she followed the right lines to Vocal Techniques.

Mikan quickly looks back at her map, noticing that there are still some more hallways to go through in order to reach the class, and—

Wait, is the class _on the second floor_?

"Filthy orange teeth," she curses under her breath.

This is getting her nowhere, Mikan thinks. If she doesn't want to be late for her first class—she checks her watch—which starts in about _ten minutes_, she has to ask for help.

Mikan blows her long, auburn hair out of her face and, ignoring that little nervous feeling that tugs at her insides, she walks on further.

She spots two girls at the end of the hallway. One of them is tall and she walks daintily, in a way that Mikan associates with graceful ballerinas. She sweeps her long, dark hair behind her ear to see her companion better: a shorter girl with clipped, wavy hair that falls to the tip of her shoulders. And much like the awesome upperclassman she met during auditions, her hair is pink. Is that some kind of trend?

Maybe it's the association to that upperclassman, or maybe it's the fact that they look genuinely nice, but Mikan feels like they're approachable—even if they are talking rather animatedly with each other.

Mikan slowly walks to them, not wanting to just randomly pop up and disturb them; or even worse, freak them out.

"H-hey," she starts, her voice soft and light, but it's strong enough to get the girls' attention.

"Hello!" the two chime together.

Mikan smiles. "Hey. Um," she scratches her cheek awkwardly, "I feel kind of embarrassed to say this, but I need to get to Vocal Techniques, and I'm totally lost. Do you know where it is?"

"Oh, sure!" the blue-haired one exclaims. "We were about to head there, anyway. You're with Narumi, right?"

"Yup."

"Cool! We're also in that class."

Mikan's smile widens. "Really?"

The blue-haired girl extends her hand, which Mikan gladly takes. "My name is Nonoko and this"—Nonoko nods to her pink-haired friend—"is Anna."

"Hi!" Anna greets, her light blue eyes sparkling, pink lips curled into a wide smile.

"I'm Mikan," Mikan returns, shaking Nonoko's hand. "Nice to meet you two!" She can't help but sound excited; she's finally found nice people to hang out with.

Nonoko gives her a distracted smile as she glances at her phone. "Ah, we should hurry up if we don't want to be late."

Anna nods. "Then let's go." Flashing another bright grin at Mikan, she indicates to come with them, and they walk away, Mikan following them.

They talk along the way, getting to know each other a little. Mikan concentrates on which way they're going, trying to remember it for next time.

They enter a spacious room that is different from every classroom Mikan's ever been in. The shape is semicircular, with wooden bars that line the walls instead of normal brick. The desks are set in rows that descend towards the center of the room, and a piano sits at the side of the center space. Behind it is a normal whiteboard propped next to a white board with gray musical lines permanently painted onto the board.

_Amazing._ It's the first time Mikan's ever been excited just to find a seat in her class.

Most of the students are already there, some minding their own business, some having turned to the girls; Mikan feels a little uncomfortable as the eyes turn to her.

She follows Anna and Nonoko, choosing a desk behind them.

"I wonder who our teacher is," Nonoko says, turning around.

"I hope a young and handsome one," Anna says, staring at the ceiling as though she's picturing the man in front of her. Her index finger absently twirls around one of her pink locks, and she ignores Nonoko's eye roll with what seems like practiced ease. "I mean, wouldn't that make things a lot more _interesting_?"

"Let's hope it's just some middle-aged man for the sake of your grades," Nonoko says, nudging Anna out of her fantasy world.

Anna sticks her tongue out, and Mikan chuckles. Just then, Nonoko taps her arm and points her chin to the front of the classroom.

A man has situated himself in the center of the room. He claps his hands once, but it's like there's an amplifier in his hands with how loud it is, and one clap is enough to get the entire class silenced in a heartbeat.

"Good morning, everyone!" the man says in a silvery voice. "My name is Narumi L. Anju, and I am your teacher for this class. Nice to meet you all!"

Mikan recognizes him from the auditions, and it's with a bit of relief that she thinks, _Thank God it isn't that other guy that burned me to the ground_.

"Hmm." Mikan hears Anna whistle appreciatively. "I'm starting to like this class already."

Mikan stifles the urge to giggle and instead turns her attention to Narumi, who hands a pile of papers to a student so that they can be handed down the rows. Once everyone has one, including her, he stands next to the piano and goes over it—a syllabus. Mikan doesn't hear much of it, so caught up in her daydreaming about the rest of her day, but she blinks and turns back to the front when she hears a resounding clap.

"Alrighty then, now that the boring stuff is over"—Mikan looks just in time to see Narumi throwing away the syllabus—"it's time to have some fun." He stands up. "Get up, please, and move your desks to the side so we can make a powwow in the center."

Everyone stares at Narumi like he's a lunatic, making him laugh.

"Come on now," he coaxes. "This is going to be fun, trust me! Now, hurry up; we don't have all day."

The class does as they're told and pushes their desks to the sides of the classroom, all the while whispering to one another about what Narumi is planning to do. Mikan doesn't understand if this is part of Vocal Techniques, but she's sure that, either way, it's going to be fun.

"Okay," Narumi starts once the circle has been formed, "as you're going to be stuck with each other for the rest of this year, let's get to know each other, shall we? Tell us your name, age, what your hobbies are, your favorite color—or your least favorite, I'm not picky—where you're from. Whatever you want to share with us is fine. Alrighty?" The class doesn't respond, but he beams at them as if they had."Alrighty! Let's start."

Narumi smiles at a black-haired girl who stiffens and fiddles with her rings as she realizes that she's the one who has to start. She hesitates for a moment, and then begins.

"Um, my name is Wakako Usami. I'm eighteen, and I'm in the piano program. Uh, I'm from the south and I like to sing, so I'm taking some vocal classes too."

"Good, good!" Narumi exclaims when she's done. "Next!"

The red-headed boy that sits next to her flushes. After he's done, it's another boy's turn, and so on and so on, until it's time for Anna to speak. Anna, in contrast to the previous talkers, seems eager for her turn and stands up.

"Hello!" Anna chirps. "I'm Anna Umenomiya! I'm seventeen, and my favorite color is pink; I hate the color black—makes me think of the black plague. Um, what next… Oh, yeah! I'm a dancer, with a primary focus on contemporary and secondary focus on ballet. I also love to sing, and my favorite hobby is cooking."

"Beautiful," Narumi muses when Anna sits back down, a huge grin on her face. "Next!"

Nonoko stands up with more reluctance than her friend. "My name is Nonoko Ogasawara," she starts hesitantly. "I'm eighteen years old. I like the colors blue and pink, and I like to read a lot. You can say I'm a nerd." She chuckles awkwardly. "I'm a ballet dancer, but my friend Anna here got me into contemporary...and I like to sing."

She sits down, a huge breath escaping her lips, and Narumi beams at her before turning to Mikan expectantly. Her heart pounds hard against her chest as she stands up, but she ignores it; this isn't something to be nervous about anyway. "Um, hi! My name is Mikan Sakura. I'm seventeen years old and my favorite color is orange, and I love to sing!"

When everyone has introduced themselves, Narumi steps to the center of the room once again. "Alright everyone, I expect all of us to have a great semester together! You can all go, but it'd be really great if you helped put those chairs back together for the next group that comes along!"

Everyone got up, and a few people trickle out the door, but most stay behind to put the desks back to their original places.

After Anna puts her desk back, she stands up and wipes her imaginary sweat off her forehead. "Such tiring work for a delicate maiden like me to go through."

Nearby, Nonoko snorts, having put her desk back as well. "Who's a delicate maiden here? Narumi?"

Anna pouts. "You're so _mean, _Nonoko."

Nonoko rolls her eyes; it seems like a practiced movement. "Right, Anna-dearest." Nonoko turns to Mikan. "Anyway, you want to get lunch with us? Anna can be a little hard to deal with sometimes—"

"_Hey!"_

"—but most of the time, she's fine," Nonoko continues. "Of course, I can't say for sure that she's fine _right now, _but hey, what's the loss, right? So yay or nay?"

Mikan chuckles. "I'll go for yay," she says with a grin. "Let's go, guys."

* * *

Mikan, Nonoko, and Anna step into the cafeteria a while later, the raucous sound of the energetic students inside filling their ears.

"I'm not gonna lie, that class was pretty fun," Nonoko says. "I wonder if it'll always be like that."

"I know, right? And did you notice how beautiful that man was? Like, his _voice_! I could listen to it all day!" Anna sighs dreamily. "He's so amazing."

Nonoko rolls her dark blue eyes yet again. "You're making a disgusting face right now. Please stop before people think something weird of you."

"You're not really a saint yourself, you know," Anna retorts, pouting. "I saw the way you looked at him."

Nonoko flushes and grabs her long hair in attempt to hide her face. "But with different intentions!"

"_Riiiiiight_."

Mikan chuckles in amusement at the two.

As Nonoko and Anna continue to bicker with each other—really more Anna teasing and Nonoko shushing, rather than bickering—Mikan steps in the lunch line. The line is quite long and Mikan has to stand on her toes to see what food is left. To her disappointment, most of the trays are nearly or completely empty. Mikan's lips twist into a frown.

_I hope there's still something left for us,_ she thinks as the first few people in the line walk away.

It seems to take forever before they reach the end—announced by Anna's exclamation of "Thank _God_!"—but they reach it somehow before the next apocalypse. The lunch lady smiles kindly as Mikan searches for something tasty-looking, but most of the food don't look very appealing to her.

"I'm hunggryyyy!" Anna whines.

Nonoko elbows her. "Don't be so rude!" she scolds.

Anna just ignores the jab and hangs off Mikan's arm like a desperate puppy. "Can't you just _pick_ something, Mikan? _Please_?"

But Mikan doesn't want to just pick _something; _she wants to enjoy her lunch. She spots a sandwich—the last one—that looks good enough and decides to go for that one. But just when she reaches out to grab it, a hand appears out of nowhere, snatching it right from under her nose.

She blinks as the figure past her with a spin, showing his face for just a second—_Natsume_. His feet move fluidly over the floor tiles as though he's doing it to a beat.

It takes her a moment to take in the headphones placed on his ears, the cord running down to his pocket, but then it strikes her—

_He's dancing_.

"What the hell?" Nonoko says.

Anna's eyebrows are raised. "Who was that?"

Stunned, Mikan watches Natsume dancing away with _her_ sandwich. She blinks once more, and anger starts to simmer inside of her. What the hell's his problem anyway?

Mikan's taking a step forward before she knows it, and she stomps after him, ignoring Anna and Nonoko's calls.

Natsume sits down at a table that's already taken by four unfamiliar boys. Two sandy-haired boys are drumming on the table—"Dude, no. You're doing it wrong," the one on the left says, changing the rhythm of his drumming; the other one just grins and copies him—and a boy with a shaven head sits on the opposite side, focused on his phone. One of the boys catches her attention: a blonde sitting across them, beside Natsume. His face is in that wonderful halfway mark between boyish softness and chiseled perfection; in a year or so, his looks will be devastating.

He's the only one to look up when Mikan stops in front of their table as she glares daggers at Natsume.

Who still hasn't noticed her.

That does it—

"Hey!" Mikan calls. _That_ catches his attention alright. "Give me back that sandwich!"

Natsume raises an eyebrow at her before removing his headphones. "What?"

Mikan feels her cheeks heating up, but she shoves it down with a growl. "That sandwich you took from me? Yeah, that's my _lunch, _and you stole it from me, you jerk, so give it back!"

Natsume stares at her with a blank face and shoots a quick glance at _her_ sandwich he holds in his hand. "No way," he returns nonchalantly. "I got it fair and square. It's mine. "

Mikan's eyebrow twitches. "_What_?" she shrieks. The bald-headed boy actually flinches. "But—but I stood in the _line_ for it! I was about to get it but you—you freaking _stole_ it from me! _Give it back_!"

"You cut in the line?" the blonde boy asks Natsume. He frowns. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I didn't. I didn't even see her."

_Like that makes it okay!_ Mikan thinks angrily.

"Hey, you can have my pizza if you want?" one of the sandy-haired boys says, a wide grin plastered on his face, lifting his pizza slice that he clearly has eaten from.

Mikan wrinkles her nose in disgust. "No…thank you."

The boy makes a face. "What? Why that disgusted look? I only took, like, _two_ bites from it. You won't even notice that I touched it! Besides," he runs his fingers through his locks flirtatiously, "I taste fucking _delicious,_ so if—"

"Koko," the bald-headed boy interrupts, looking annoyed. "Shut up."

The boy, Koko, frowns at him. "What, man, you don't think I taste delicious? Fuck you, Mochu. Kitsuneme-" Koko turns to the boy next to him. "Don't I taste delicious?"

Kitsuneme makes an OK sign and grins. "The best."

"Thank you! See?" Koko turns his attention back to Mikan. "I taste like _heaven_, alright? And so will this pizza, so you should definitely give it a try."

Mikan can't help but giggle, the anger inside of her fading a little. "No, thanks."

Koko sighs dramatically. "Have it your way then," he says, before taking a huge bite out of his pizza.

"If you want, you can have my sandwich?" the blonde asks. "I haven't touched it yet or anything, so it's safe."

Mikan's heart may or may not melt at his gentle, almost princely expression; she smiles and shakes her head. "No. Keep it. It wouldn't be fair to give up your lunch because your so-called _friend," _she narrows her eyes at Natsume, "is acting like a total jerk right now."

She turns to Natsume with an exasperated breath. "Natsume, seriously. Can you please give me back that sandwich?"

He barely flicks a glance at her. "No."

Mikan tenses, watching him removing the paper. "I'm not going to leave until you do," she grumbles.

"Then stay and watch me eat 'your' sandwich," Natsume says. "I'm not gonna give it to you." His crimson eyes gleams mischievously from behind his messy bangs and a thin smirk tugs at his lips, as if he's _taunting_ her.

Mikan grits her teeth, feeling the anger spur indignantly once more, but then:

"Better luck next time, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart._

That does it for her.

"_Fine_!" Mikan shrieks, her voice even more high-pitched than before. Mochu flinches again. "Do whatever the hell you want then, you stupid…_stupid_…" She swallows, her brain working in overdrive to try to think of an insult. "_You stupid toothbrush_! I'm done!"

Mikan stomps away, ignoring all the weird looks that people throws at her.

"Are you okay?" Nonoko asks once Mikan arrives at their table.

Mikan shakes her head. "No! Of course not! Not with this—this jerk—" She pauses, forcing herself to take a deep breath, calming herself down. He's not worth her anger.

"I don't want anything to do with that jerk," she continues, voice slightly cracking. "I want to stay the hell away from him so he doesn't ruin my school years, which I'm sure he will."

Mikan glances at Natsume only to see him taking a bite off her sandwich, eyes still locked on her as though he's daring her. Mikan scowls.

Nonoko and Anna glance at each other before Nonoko puts a hand on Mikan's shoulder. "Let's find a table far away from him then, alright? Just ignore him. He's not worth your attention."

"Yeah," Mikan says, glaring at Natsume one last time before following them out of the cafeteria. "Good idea."

* * *

A/N: Hello, this is Unknown Pain, making her re-entrance into the GA fandom! At least, it was supposed to be, but as dear Samantha has disappeared off the face of the planet for the past eight hours due to her ailments, this is Topaz Tsubasa and Rinail taking over instead! HAHAHAHA, HELLO READERS.

A full 1900 words were added to Unknown Pain's original draft from yours truly, but the other 5500 words were all Sammy's work. Unfortunately, since Samantic's disappearance happened to be right as we were uploading the chapter, we got full rights to the author's note, so here we are.

The chapter is a week and two days late to schedule due to certain circumstances, but hopefully after a few more chapters, the story will resume its planned weekly updates.

Thank you to all eight reviewers, along with the people who followed and favorited the story! We hope you enjoyed this chapter, and we'll see you (hopefully) next week!

-Topaz Tsubasa and Rinail


	3. Pizza With a Side of Music and Pain

**Note:** This chapter was written by _Topaz Tsubasa_, with the aid of _Rinail_.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Pizza With a Side of Music and Pain, Not In That Order**

Mikan blows a persistent strand of hair from her face. It moves back to the same position immediately after. She does it again, and it comes back again, and so forth, and so forth…

She groans loudly and pushes off her desk, vaulting off her rolling chair to flop like dead weight on top of her bed. She'd gone to class. She'd done all her homework—even her written assignment for Music Theory, which wasn't due until _next week_—and she'd even practiced her singing for two hours!

But it's only 8:00, her tumblr dashboard yields nothing entertaining, and she can't even call Hotaru because she's on some kind of business trip and won't be back until tomorrow. Mikan wails into her pillow, a part of her relishing the way her voice vibrates in the fabric.

The door opens and closes behind her. Mikan is so exasperated she doesn't even lift up her head.

"You look dead," her roommate states.

"I _am_ dead," Mikan affirms. "There's nothing to do!"

"Nothing? Not even practice?" Cabinets open and close and she hears some shuffling, which means her roommate is probably getting changed.

"I practiced tons, and I did all my homework too!" She shifts her head so she can sic her puppy dog eyes on her roommate.

"Sumire," she whines, "give me something to do, _please?_"

Sumire Shouda purses her glossed lips and looks at Mikan with a measure of disdain befitting a French duchess. Her baggy dance clothes don't offset her manicured nails or immaculate makeup, and with her hair pulled in a messy bun, she still looks stunning. And her face betrays _nothing_ that suggests Mikan's puppy dog eyes have the slightest effect on her—or at least, they have as much effect as a wet paper towel does on a 350-pound running back.

"How is it that you attend one of the most prestigious music academies in the world and yet you can't find something to do with your spare time?" Sumire shakes her head.

Mikan pouts and readies a retort, but then Sumire sighs and says, "I suppose it can't be helped. Get up, you lazy ass; you're coming with me."

She has only a moment to blink and wonder if her puppy dog eyes actually did have some convincing power—probably not, judging by the "lazy ass"—before Sumire is grabbing her keys and heading out of the dorm room. She scurries out of her bed, quickly throwing her feet into her slippers and following Sumire out the door.

As she twists the key into the lock, Sumire glances down and raises a delicate eyebrow. "Slippers?"

Mikan's lips form into a miffed pout. "You left the room too fast for me to put on anything else."

Sumire rolls her eyes and heads to the elevator. They wait in somewhat uncomfortable silence before the doors open with a pleasant "ding", and before she can even blink, Sumire strides out of the elevator. Mikan has to jog to catch up to her—stupid short legs—but a minute later, they're in the fourth floor in front of a studio Mikan didn't even know was in the building.

Mikan blinks slowly. "What are we doing here?"

Sumire sneers, like she just asked the question with the most obvious answer in the world. "I'm here to practice dancing. You wanted something to do? Now you have one—you get to watch me."

Mikan's mouth drops open. She's dealt with Hotaru enough that she can take unhelpful, literal-minded answers in stride, but the fact that her roommate might be Hotaru part 2 is what worries her. With a slight cringe at the mental images it brings, she sets out to make herself comfortable. She tucks herself into a corner of the studio all the way in the back, below some windows and next to a stack of metal folding chairs.

She plants an arm on top of the chairs and rests her head on her hand, watching Sumire's reflection in the giant mirror walk to a stereo lined up against the wall. Sumire spends a minute plugging in her phone and choosing the right song, and meanwhile, Mikan considers the merits of escaping back to her dorm, since she has a feeling she might have traded one boredom for another.

Then music starts to filter into the room, and Sumire begins her routine.

Within seconds, Mikan realizes that Sumire Shouda isn't just a human being—she's a force of nature. She takes her time, starting with body rolls that have her hips sashaying in a way so enticing that Mikan has to take a moment to remember that she's straight. Then Sumire struts forward, eyes regaling the mirror like a dark seductress.

Her arms twist over her body, and with an abrupt thrum of the beat, her hands snap out to the side, fingers poised delicately as she steps forward in confident strides. The entire pose, look, whatever it is—it's contrasting every movement head to toe, from her neck held up high to the soft treading of her feet.

Mikan watches, quietly transfixed; it's like she can't look _enough, _even though her eyes are already greedily absorbing every detail of Sumire's dance. Her gaze wanders all over Sumire's body, and for the second time since the beginning of the dance, she has to remind herself that she's straight. But she can't bring herself to care when her roommate is so alluring, so _seductive,_ and Mikan can only begin to imagine what effect Sumire has on the boys who are attracted to her to begin with.

As the music picks up in speed, Sumire drops down to crouch on the floor like a cat. She balances on the balls of her feet, fingers resting on her knees when she guides them open and closed repeatedly.

If she thought that this dance was seductive before, it's nothing compared to watching Sumire with her shoulders set back, wrists an elegant curve on her knees, and long legs opening and closing in her provocative routine.

_Sumire, _Mikan thinks, forcing her jaw not to drop, _is a very dangerous woman._

Sumire opens her legs one last time before her hand steers her right knee to a close. Her fingers drag on the smooth skin of her thigh all the way to her hips, and—this time Mikan _does _drop her jaw—they tap playfully on her shorts as she gets up in one fluid motion.

Her leg extends to the side, hands moving up her stomach and chest. And in a startling explosion of bass and drums, Sumire drops her hands and swings her body to the side with a wink. Her body dips down before curving back up, and she pivots to her other side to do the same roll all over again.

After the whole "open-legs-and-close" routine, Mikan didn't know how it could get even more seductive, but looking at Sumire's hips rolls forward again and again in one feisty surge—

Mikan doesn't exactly blame herself for letting her blood rush to her cheeks.

Sumire's hands fall to her sides as the song winds to an end. To absolutely no one's surprise, Mikan is short-winded, but she manages to find it in herself to clap anyway. "Gosh," she breathes, staring at Sumire with newfound respect, "you're—"

"Sexy?" Sumire interrupts. "Hot? Seductive enough to tap?"

"I was going to say dangerous, but _yes, _all three apply, you insufferable woman."

Sumire grins, her flush an alluring red in her cheeks. "Thanks. But trust me, it's nowhere _near _how sexy I can be when I actually put work into it. The choreography was made because of an assignment in my stupid class; I'm supposed to create a dance that any beginner can do, so why not embarrass half the male population while I'm doing it?"

Mikan can't hold back her giggle. "Who were you planning on?"

"Well, there's Yuu—this blond kid in my class who's _amazing _at choreo—but there's also this other guy Natsume. You know him?

Mikan scowls. "Unfortunately."

"Well," Sumire says, "that's who I was mostly planning on."

Mikan's mouth drops open. "Are you serious?"

Sumire shrugs as she leans down to grab her towel. "Might as well get as much amusement out of it. And Natsume's like, one of the _sexiest _human beings to ever grace this Earth, so why not?"

Mikan rolls her eyes. "He's just a jerk."

"A goddamn sexy one," Sumire retorts. "You can't deny that, Mikan. You even watched his audition. Remember that and _lie _to my face that you don't think he's sexy."

When Sumire puts it that way, there's really no other choice for Mikan but to nod.

"But," she says, ignoring Sumire's groan of disgust, "he's still a jerk."

"Might want to try the word 'asshole', Mikan. Guys generally are."

Mikan steps back to lean against the wall with Sumire. "Amen to that."

Right as they fall into a comfortable silence, Mikan hears Sumire mutter, "Three cheers for being shallow as hell."

For a second, Mikan doesn't react because she isn't sure she heard right. Then she glances back at Sumire and sees the dull sheen her emerald eyes have taken, and she realizes that yes, she _did _hear right. But more importantly—

Did she just catch a glimpse into a window of her roommate's insecurities?

_...Sumire _has _insecurities?_

Mikan's instant reaction is denial. She's already insecure enough for the both of them combined. "Hey, we're not being shallow. There's no harm in admitting someone is sexy. Just because we're above Natsume's antics doesn't mean we're _blind_."

Sumire laughs. "Well, you're not wrong," she says, and thankfully, that look in her eyes fades, a glimmer of gratitude rising in its place. "You know, Mikan Sakura, you're pretty alright." Grinning, she pushes herself to her feet and holds out a hand. "Come on."

Mikan blinks at her curiously, but takes her hand nonetheless. Sumire leads her to the middle of the studio and lets go of her hand, and by the time Sumire is at the stereo to put on some music, Mikan is already spluttering and feeling her stomach dip to her toes.

"Um, S-Sumire, I can't dance—"

Sumire cuts her off with a scoff and places a hand on her hip, eyes scrutinizing Mikan under raised brows. "Honey, does it look like I care? I need a test subject, and seeing as you can walk and talk at the same time, you're as good material as any."

Mikan inhales sharply, and some saliva gets caught in her airway, causing her to choke right then and there. Sumire starts looking at her strangely, but Mikan is too busy focusing on how wrong and just—just _not right_ her last statement was.

Spluttering, Mikan says, "Sumire, you don't understand." She clears her throat and internally winces at how it forces her muscles together, practically hearing her vocal chords chastise her for doing that to her throat.

She shakes it out of her mind; there are more pressing matters to deal with. "I can't dance. I mean, I _really _can't dance. Like I was taking classes until I was twelve and I had to stop because I wouldn't stop falling on my face. _That_ level of 'I can't dance.' I'm bad. Really bad. Really, really, _really _bad, so don't make me do this."

To Mikan's ultimate dismay, Sumire rolls her eyes and plays the music anyway.

"You might wanna take off those slippers," she says as she sidles up to Mikan's right.

Mikan stands in frozen horror. Her limbs are paralyzed, hands are shaking by her sides, and she doesn't think that she'd be able to dance even if she _wanted _to. And Mikan hasn't wanted to. Not in a very long time.

Sumire studies her for a second before she turns around and snaps out her hands once more. She does her whole routine again, from the beginning of the verse until the end, and Mikan almost believes that she'll be able to get home free—not forcing her to dance for the first verse has to count for _something_.

She believes it, right until Sumire whirls around and brings her hands together. Her clap is deafening even amidst the loud beats of the song, and Mikan straightens her back out of pure habit. Sumire's gaze is a gleaming shadow of promised threats and bodily harm as she barks out, "Chorus routine, Mikan! Now!"

Mikan doesn't know _why _she does it—maybe it's habit, or the instinctual fear of Sumire's unspoken threats—but she does it anyway. She can remember the choreography with frightening detail, and it's not much work for her to extend her leg to the side and do the same movement that Sumire had done only a couple minutes ago.

As the beat drops, Mikan relaxes her entire body and, fingers splayed at her sides, she moves her hips into two slow body rolls before stepping on her other foot to spin around and do the same thing. In her peripheral vision, she can see Sumire's grin blooming on her face, and she _would _roll her eyes if every ounce of her attention and focus wasn't thrown into the dance.

Mikan tries to remember what little her dance instructor told her about body rolls; about how they should always be smooth, about how they should _flow _from head to toe, about how she has to put in core strength into making transitions as steady as possible.

Mikan does every single thing that her dance instructor tells her to do, and _more_—she does small movements instinctively that she doesn't remember learning or watching, but the end product _feels _right, and by the time the chorus and the song is over, Mikan is panting with a small smile on her face.

It fades soon enough once she sees Sumire walking towards her.

"You!" Mikan splutters. "I can't believe—you just—I can't believe you just _used _me!"

Sumire grins, leaning back on her right leg. "No I didn't. You asked me to give you something to do a while ago, and I did, didn't I?"

Mikan crosses her arms and huffs indignantly, scowling and shooting Sumire a pout. The edges of Sumire's lips twitch. Mikan's own lips start having to fight to keep their position, and something about it must look remarkably silly, because Sumire actually chortles.

And then the both of them burst out laughing.

She is such an idiot. What is she doing getting all mad for? She actually did ask Sumire for help, and even more than that, she actually just had _fun_. When was the last time she had fun dancing?

Sometime before that time she tripped over Kasumi Shioda's toe and ended up faceplanting in front of two hundred people when she was ten, her mind wryly answers.

At the memory, her laughter quickly starts to die down, so Mikan steers her mind away by smiling warmly at Sumire and saying, "Thanks."

Her roommate calms down and sighs. "No problem. But damn Mikan—has anyone ever told you that you've got some serious potential?"

The question comes from so far out of left field that Mikan spends a few seconds flailing mentally for a reply. "Uh—no?"

Sumire's mouth quirks into a smirk that Mikan will later realize is absolutely dangerous, because it means that her roommate has found a new toy that she's itching to take for a spin. "Alright. Then it's time for round two. By the end of the night, you're gonna see what I mean."

She winks at Mikan, and for some reason, a shiver rolls down her spine.

* * *

A long, pained groan rolls from her throat. Mikan doesn't even care about what it could possibly do to her throat muscles, she's just so sore. She collapses into a chair next to Nonoko, who immediately starts radiating alarm once Mikan smashes her head into the desk.

"Why am I alive?" Mikan grumbles miserably.

She hears Nonoko choke, sounding so bad Mikan almost lifts herself up to ask if she's okay, but then it subsides and Nonoko dissolves into nervous laughter. "I-I think that's a question best saved for a psychiatrist," she says, forcing her voice into a mild tone.

There's a persistent mallet walloping against her limbs, so Mikan is content to leave the conversation at that, but then a new voice chimes in from her left.

"Or a philosopher."

She lifts her head just enough to take a peek at the newcomer, and she recognizes him as the sandy-haired boy who offered his pizza to her at the cafeteria. "Oh, pizza boy."

The boy settles into a left-handed desk directly next to hers, allowing her to see his face without having to lift her head. She doesn't know him, so she can't tell for sure if she's right, but the grin on his face feels perpetual and trouble-making.

"Sandwich girl. Tell me, do you always run after random strangers demanding food, or was that just a one-time thing?"

Mikan snorts. "Do you always tell random strangers you taste delicious, or was that just a one-time thing?"

Pizza Boy's amused grin widens to near-cavalier status. "You ever hear the biblical verse John 8:32?"

"Not in the least," she says.

"The truth will set you free," Nonoko pipes up, earning a surprised stare from Pizza boy. Mikan would turn around and do the same, but her head feels mighty comfortable where it is.

"Correctomundo," Pizza Boy says, recovering quickly. "So there you have it, sandwich girl. I tell everyone I can how awesome I am so that I can free their lives from their lack of The Kokomeister."

Mikan raises an eyebrow. "The Kokomeister?"

He spreads his arms and wiggles his eyebrows for effect. "In the flesh, baby!"

Pizza Boy says it with so much gusto, Mikan and Nonoko can't help bursting into giggles.

"You're a dumbhead," Mikan says, a surprisingly fond note weaving into her voice through her laughter. It's strange, but somehow this boy's lame antics make him really easy to get along with.

"Nah, I'm too awesome," he says smugly. "So, uh, why are you all like…this?" he gestures to Mikan's entire body, which is currently splayed over her desk like a strand of spaghetti.

Mikan groans at the mere memory of last night. "It was the _worst_. My roommate is crazy! She made me dance for _four hours_."

Pizza Boy winces sympathetically—bless him—but Nonoko curiously asks, "Were you learning a new dance?"

"Yes," Mikan sighs. "Sumire is the worst; a complete slave driver. I wore slippers to the studio because she didn't give me time to change, but she made me dance anyway and I kept slipping the entiretime. My elbows and palms hurt from the amount of times I fell. They're _still _stinging. Eventually I just chucked the slippers, but then myfeet started hurting. My toes too! Can you believe that? _Toes."_

Nonoko laughs. Actually _laughs_. "Mikan, it was your first time doing the dance. It's going to hurt if you're a beginner. And yeah, without proper footwear, toes are going to hurt. It's natural."

"But it's different when it's Sumire," Pizza Boy interjects, to Mikan's surprise.

"You know Sumire?"

"Is your roommate's last name Shouda?" he asks. Mikan nods. "Then yup. I've known her since we were kids. When she teaches you a dance, that she-demon doesn't even let you drink _water_." He shudders.

Nonoko blinks, and the corners of her lips begin to twitch up into a smile again. "Guys, I don't know if you've noticed, but generally dancers don't drink too much water while practicing because it'll just end up sloshing around afterwards."

"But like three drops of water?" Mikan cries. "I was parched the entire time! Do you know how much I was sweating?"

Nonoko waves a hand dismissively. "What you think you need and what is actually needed tends to be a little bit different than you think. Dancers are good at toeing the line after years of practice; I imagine this Sumire person knows the line very well."

Mikan turns her head up as best as she can in her slumped position. "Still, Nonoko. Four hours and eight water breaks? Really?"

Nonoko shrugs. "Eight is pretty normal for four hours, if you ask me."

"Fine!" Mikan huffs. "So Sumire knows what she's doing. But my feet still hurt and my legs hurt and even my stomach hurts, and everything. Just. Hurts."

Nonoko tries for what seems like a sympathetic expression, but it doesn't come off that way; it's more thinly veiled exasperation. "There, there."

Pizza Boy turns his nose up too, releasing a disgusted scoff. _"Dancers. _Frickin' nuts."

"Tell me about it."

The door to the classroom opens and closes, which Mikan wouldn't have noticed, except the person that comes in is definitely the professor. "Oh, we don't have a lot of time before class starts."

With a mighty effort, Mikan forces herself into a sitting position. She isn't proud of the sounds she makes as she does, which wouldn't be out of place coming out of her dad's ancient 1947 Chrysler Imperial.

"Wow, Sandwich Girl. You sure you don't need a crane to help you sit up?"

Mikan is very tempted to shoot him a specific finger. Nonoko giggles, but nonetheless comes to her rescue with a change of subject. "So, Mr. Kokomeister, we still don't know your name."

"My name is unimportant—"

Mikan grins. "Unimportant, huh? Nice to meet you, Unimportant, I'm Dad."

Pizza Boy stares at her for a long second, expression completely blank. Then:

"Did—did you just use a dad joke on me?"

Nonoko begins to giggle all over again, but Pizza Boy ignores her and continues with an increasingly incredulous look on his face. "No, I'm being serious. Was that a dad joke that you used on me? The Kokomeister? The Ultimate Troller? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Trolled? Did you—? A dad joke? On _me?"_

It's near impossible to keep that smile off her lips at the face of his disbelief, but somehow she manages it and answers, "Yes."

Pizza Boy gazes at her for another few moments before finally leaning back into his chair. "Well, _damn,_" he says, a note of grudging admiration in his voice. "I've been bested."

It's at this point that Mikan allows the smile to surface on her face. "And it won't be for the last time, too," she says, then pauses. "By the way, what's your name? Aside from Unimportant and Kokomeister, that is."

Pizza Boy closes his eyes, inhales, and shakes his head bitterly. "I don't think you deserve my name. No siree, no Tom Riddle for you; you guys are getting Koko. _Just _Koko."

Mikan bites her lip to restrain her grin once more. "Just Koko, is it?"

He opens his eyes and begins to nod at her. "That's ri—" Then he stops. His eyes widen. "Wait, wait, wait—"

"So," Mikan says. "Just Koko, how are you doing on this fine morning?"

Just Koko groans, putting his head in his hands. "I can't _believe_—"

Mikan beams at him. "I told you it wouldn't be the last time."

"You were right," Just Koko says. "Should I even try anymore?"

Mikan shrugs. "If you don't, it'd be boring."

He nods. "Right again, fair lady." He leans forward, millimeters from being too far into Mikan's personal space—most likely trying to regain what little flirtatious allure he has. "So what do I call you two beautiful girls?"

"Well, you have a few options." Mikan digs out her pen from her bag and pretends to tap it on the desk thoughtfully. "You can call me Mikan and her Nonoko, or you can call both of us Immune To Your Advances."

Nonoko splutters a laugh and Koko looks at her, not with defeat or indignance, but with endless amusement.

He snaps his finger and shakes his head. "Aw, darn. Looks like I was too late. Sandwich Girl is already trapped by my roommate's wiles. After all, how else could she resist me?"

Koko then does his best impression of someone burdened by their own good looks. It gets Nonoko laughing again, but Mikan is still stuck on what he's said.

"Uh, what do you mean I'm 'trapped by your roommate's wiles?' Who's your roommate?"

The professor chooses then to get the projector running and stand to begin the day's lecture. As the class begins to quiet down, Koko gives her his answer:

"You didn't know? My roommate is Natsume."

* * *

It's hard enough paying attention to _Music History: From the Middle Ages to the Romantic Era_ on a normal day, but Koko's statement at the beginning of class definitely screwed her over. She spends the first fifteen minutes of class trying to catch Koko's attention, to no avail—either he really cares about his GPA, or he's trolling her for all she's worth.

By the time Mikan gives up and tries to tune into the class, she has no idea what is going on. And she very rapidly realizes that she truly doesn't have the patience to find out either. So Mikan begrudgingly turns on her phone's voice recording app and spends the rest of the hour staring off into the distance, letting her mind wander aimlessly from subject to subject.

It's not until the sounds of people scuffling and collecting their things fills the room that Mikan snaps out of her reverie. She looks around the room for a moment, lost in confusion. How can people already be packing their things? Then she checks her phone and sees the time: 11: 53.

Oh crap. If she doesn't start moving, she's gonna be late for her private lessons. And it'll be her first one of the year, so she _really _doesn't want to be late.

She quickly stuffs all her things in her bag and shoots out of her seat, nearly bowling over Koko in the process. Her hand flies to her mouth, an apology already halfway out of her lips before she remembers—it's _Koko's _fault she had been so confused in the first place.

Mikan scowls, her hands settling on her hips. "You _leaf-picker_. How could you say something like that the second class starts?"

Koko raises his eyebrow. "I don't follow."

"Oh, of course." Mikan rolls her eyes with a huff. "The stuff you said in the beginning of class, about Natsume?"

"Yes?" Koko says warily, as if he can sense Mikan's incoming wrath.

"Well," she continues, "All of it is completely untrue. He's a jerk and an arrogant little steamed vegetable, and I can't _stand _the guy."

Koko's face morphs into the weirdest mix of taken aback and scrutinizing she's ever seen. She almost expects him to say, "What'chu talkin' bout, Willis?"

Instead, he places his chin between his thumb and forefinger and regards her pensively. "So let me get this straight. You're a _girl_, and you don't like Natsume."

"Yes," she answers impatiently. Isn't that what she just said?

Koko nods. "And somehow, by some weird cosmic distortion, you don't find _me_ attractive."

She rolls her eyes again. "Correct. Is this gonna end any time soon? Because I have another class to get to."

"Yeah, yeah," Koko says, waving a hand dismissively. "But—just out of curiosity, what do you think of _girls?_"

It takes Mikan a second to understand what he's implying; what clues her in is Nonoko's amused snort in the background. "Koko, you—!" She throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. "I don't even have time for this. Just think what you want; I'm going to class."

Mikan picks up her stuff and leaves, ignoring the indignant squawks that follow behind her. So what if she didn't give him a real answer? Mikan has more pressing problems: her first private lessons in the Alice Academy of Music.

* * *

A throng of female students cackle at a joke behind Mikan as she stares at the big, metal door in front of her. Her heart pounds hard in her chest, and she grips the shoulder strap to her bag so hard her knuckles go white. No matter what she does, she can't move a muscle, can't tear her eyes away from the digits "2059" etched into the plaque on the door.

Has any number ever looked more daunting to her?

Mikan bites at her lip before the sudden ire in her chest makes her scowl. She is _so_ tired of being nervous. It feels like everything pertaining between her and the Alice Academy of Music has always included her being a humongous bundle of nerves. Well, it's not happening again. She lightly smacks her cheeks so the pain can keep her grounded and opens the door, walking with her head high into her first private vocal lesson of the semester.

And all her nerves melt as she comes face to face with one Narumi L. Anju, wearing what has to be the most garish pink scarf she's ever seen.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" Narumi greets, and the simple act causes a number of feathers to fall from his scarf to the piano he's standing next to.

Mikan lets the door close behind her with a giggle. "Hi, Professor Narumi."

As she makes herself comfortable on a stool across from Narumi, Narumi re-introduces himself and goes over what they'll be doing for the semester. He shows her what stretches and breathing exercises to do before singing—"Relaxation is key!" Narumi says multiple times—and surprisingly, Mikan finds herself laughing quite a few times. She feels sillier than ever for being so nervous earlier.

…That is, until Narumi takes his place on the piano bench. "Okay, now we're going to do some scales to warm up and see where your range is."

His words unleash a brand new wave of anxiety rolling in her stomach. It's one thing to sing in private or among friends, but it's something else entirely to sing in front of someone who will judge your singing. Even if that someone is wearing a scarf so flamboyant she could probably use it to land an airplane. Despite Mikan's best efforts to breathe deeply and steady herself, her heart beat still quickens.

And sure enough, as the scales move higher and higher, her chest constricts and she finds it too hard to draw in enough breath to sing the notes loudly enough.

_The same problem she was struggling with back in__** January.**_

When they finish the scales, Mikan's shoulders droop and she sighs in disappointment.

"It's okay to be nervous, you know."

Mikan's eyes whip up to Narumi in surprise.

He smiles knowingly. "Everyone gets nervous. Even I did, once upon a time."

"Does it ever go away?" Mikan asks, sounding a tad desperate even to her own ears.

"In some cases, yes. In others, it never goes away."

She deflates again. She just _knows_ that's going to be her—

"But in all cases," Narumi says, as if he knows exactly which train of thought he just interrupted, "the more you sing in front of others, the more manageable it becomes. You just need to give it time, Mikan. You already sound wonderful; practice is only going to make you better."

He gives her a reassuring smile, and Mikan's chest suddenly feels five times lighter. To be frank, Mikan wants nothing more than to be rid of her stupid anxiety permanently, but Narumi gives her hope nonetheless. After all, before her relationship with her mother took a downturn, her mother once told her, "there's no point to anything unless you work for it." That's why achievement exists. And more than anything, Mikan wants to achieve vocal greatness.

She smiles at Narumi gratefully and begins to speak, but then an alarm Mikan never noticed goes off on top of the piano. Both Mikan and Narumi look at the clock in surprise.

"Oh, I must have spent more time talking today than I thought," Narumi says absently.

Mikan snickers and moves to pick up her stuff.

"It's okay, professor," she says, straightening up and smiling at him brightly. "You still helped me a lot."

Narumi stands and flourishes with his scarf, nearly knocking over the clock on the piano, the scarf is that big. "You're welcome!"

She laughs and they exchange goodbyes, but Narumi stops her before she gets to the door.

"Mikan—just a heads up. On Tuesday, I'll be picking out people to sing the song we practiced yesterday."

Mikan's smile freezes.

He continues on, oblivious to the turmoil beginning to brew in his student. "I'm sure you were already going to practice over the weekend, but you should keep what I said today in mind!"

She nods and thanks him mechanically, and then shuffles out to the hall as quickly as she can.

Uh oh.

* * *

And that is why, on Saturday at 1 PM, Mikan finds herself perched on her best friend Hotaru's white leather couch. Hotaru is in a black leather love seat across from her, fighting jet lag with a strong cup of coffee in her hands. In between them is a glass coffee table strewn with "prizes" from Hotaru's business trip: three flash drives, two notebooks, and a teddy bear wearing a t-shirt that spells "je t'aime." Mikan's fingers itch to play with it.

Just as she's contemplating the pros and cons of just snatching the little thing and making a run for it, Hotaru's voice, tinged with the slightest tone of amusement, stops her.

"Mikan, if you think that I can't see you eyeing that bear, you'd be wrong," she says. She meets Mikan's eyes with an even gaze. "Paws off. That's for Youichi."

Mikan pouts. "I was _not _making eyes at the bear."

Hotaru sips daintily at her coffee. "You know you were."

"Well, maybe you're wrong."

Hotaru stares at her, as if the very idea of her being wrong is preposterous; and after a few seconds, Mikan has to concede the point. In their old high school yearbook, Hotaru was voted as Least Likely To Be Wrong Ever. Her reputation for being right about _everything _precedes her, and Mikan herself has never seen her be wrong in their eleven years together.

So—

"Fine," Mikan huffs. "So you're not wrong. But I was _not _making eyes at the bear."

Hotaru rolls her eyes and sets her coffee down on the table with a sigh. "Of course. Now, was there anything you wanted in particular by meeting me the moment I hopped off the plane?"

Mikan's pout reappears with a vengeance. "I just thought that you would want someone to greet you," she says.

"And I suppose that it has nothing to do with your blatant attempt at lying?"

And damn it, Hotaru's fixing her with Hotaru Eyebrow Raise #21, otherwise known as the _'Do You Really Think That You Can Deceive Me, Fool' _expression_. _Coupled with the Hotaru Smile #4—_'You Are An Inferior Being To Me, So Cut The Bullshit'_—it makes for a devastating effect, and Mikan's shoulders droop.

"Fine," she says for the second time that day. "There is something else—"

Hotaru settles back on the couch, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"But," Mikan presses, making sure to emphasize the word, "it can wait for later. I really did want to see you, honest."

Hotaru smiles, and double damn, it's Mikan's favorite one, Hotaru Smile #2, the _'You Are Annoying At The Best Of Times, But You Are Still My Best Friend and I Love You'. _

Mikan smiles at her in return, walking over for a quick hug—kind smiles or no, Hotaru is still a dangerous woman with a ruthless streak miles wide—before settling back down into her seat. "So," she says, "what happened while you were at France?"

Her friend huffs: the Imai equivalent of a derisive snort. "Besides deal with the worst hotel service of all time? Nothing I can divulge." She sets her mug down on the table, apparently finished with her coffee, and sits back in her chair. "Just tell me what you've been up to. Can't be all that bad, since you're going to the wonder school."

Mikan perks up in her chair, ignoring the clear disdain Hotaru has for her school in favor of finally being able to say what she's wanted to tell Hotaru since her first day at the academy. "Oh, it's been wonderful! I'm learning so much about myself, I have the best teachers, the best roommate, I'm making friends all over the place and meeting all sorts of great people—"

She stops short, as the image of one particular black-haired, red-eyed nightmare pops into her mind. "...Except _Natsume._"

Hotaru's eyebrow tweaks into Hotaru Eyebrow Raise #11: her way of saying '_Go On'._

So she does, with a discontent frown. "He's the guy I told you about from the auditions, the one that used your song."

"Yes, yes, I remember," Hotaru said, waving her hand. "I wouldn't forget someone with such a good taste in music."

Mikan snorts. "If you met him, you'd wish you did. He's terrible—he's so annoying. He teases me all the time and he calls me names like sweetheart, and normally you'd think 'oh, but he's just calling you sweetheart, that's not so bad' but from him it just sounds so much _worse_, and he must think messing with me is all the rage because he stole my sandwich and this one time I practically fell over him trying to grab his keys because he made me think he was my _roommate_—"

Hotaru cuts her off with a held up hand. "Stop," she says, rubbing her temple and staring wistfully at her empty mug. "I get it, you want to bang him. Just stop killing my eardrums with your squealing."

Mikan throws her hands in the air and looks up at the ceiling as if asking someone Up There to quell her exasperation. "Ugh, why does everyone keep saying that I like him? He's a menace! I'd rather jump off a bridge than go out with such a—"

"Mikan," Hotaru interrupts once again, shooting her with Hotaru Death Glare #8, or the '_If You Say One More Word I Will End You_' glare. "I'm sure you weren't about to use one of your stupid swear substitutes, considering that is not something I am prepared to tolerate with only three hours of sleep and one cup of coffee to aid me. Am I correct?"

Mikan gulps and nods, shrinking into the couch.

Hotaru shakes her head and stands, grabbing her coffee mug. "Can't believe I actually asked to hear this bullshit." She starts making her way to the kitchen, but not before she picks up one of the notebooks and tosses it into Mikan's lap.

"Look through that and take your pick of lyrics. Since you're here, you might as well help me apply some melodies."

Uh oh. That was Hotaru in Whirlwind Mode. Mikan looks down at the composition notebook on her lap and sighs.

She'd better get cracking.

* * *

Considering the leaps and bounds her nervousness takes to bring itself to the surface whenever she sings in front of professionals, it's comforting to know how easily it dies whenever she's only singing in front of Hotaru. There isn't an ounce of tension in her body. And Mikan doesn't know if it might be that or all those new warmups and stretches from her first week of school, but her voice is going places she never knew it could.

Even Hotaru is surprised, judging by the looks she keeps sending Mikan from the piano bench.

Mikan finishes off the first verse with a smile at her best friend. To think, just fifteen minutes ago, these lyrics didn't even have a melody.

Of course, the transition to the chorus brings her back to earth. The leap in range between the last note she sang and this one is too far and her voice cracks, causing her to trip up through the words. She glances at Hotaru sheepishly, while Hotaru just rolls her eyes, probably making a mental note to look at the transition later.

Hotaru stops playing at the end of the first chorus, sitting back and stretching her fingers. "That was good, but there's a few things I have to tweak before we keep going."

She plants an elbow on top of the piano and places her head on her hand. "Okay. Is there anything I can do?"

"You can get me another cup of coffee," Hotaru says pointedly, indicating the empty mug on top of the piano with her chin.

Mikan's lips curl into a frown. "Hotaru, caffeine is bad for you."

Hotaru sics her with another look—one that Mikan has always hesitated to name, because that look is the closest Hotaru Imai will probably ever get to pleading on any normal day. She points at the notebook between Mikan and the coffee mug. "This is the first in a long list of things I have to do by Monday morning. Caffeine will keep me sane."

The frown on Mikan's face only deepens. This isn't the first time Hotaru has mentioned the kind of workload she has, working in the production department of Ultra Mix Studios. She's always thought it was ridiculous for them to give someone so young so much to do, but according to Hotaru, a lot of people like the unique sound she produces, so she gets tacked with extra assignments on top of all the typical secretarial work expected of production assistants.

She claims it's alright, because that's how you ascend quickly in the world of music, but Mikan doesn't have to like it.

"I'm _not _making you another cup of coffee," Mikan says, standing up straight and holding her head up defiantly in the face of Hotaru's growing annoyance. "What I _am _going to do is buy you some fruit and keep you company for the weekend. You'll have no excuse to drink more coffee, because I'll be keeping you sane instead."

Hotaru releases a long, drawn out breath through her nose. Her lavender eyes look straight into Mikan's. Mikan doesn't waver.

Eventually, she gives in with another sigh and points at the keys hanging on a hook near the door. "Fine. If you're going to do that, use those to let yourself back in."

Mikan pumps her fist victoriously. "I won't let you down, Hotaru, I promise!"

"Yeah, yeah," Hotaru says, but the edges of her lips are drawn up in a tiny smile.

Mikan quickly makes her way to the door, pausing to put on her shoes and grab the keys off the hook before saying, "I'm off!"

Then she's out of the apartment, turning around and locking the door behind her with a click.

...And thusly cementing that Mikan won't even come close to being able to do what she had came there for in the first place. She sighs, tugging the key out of the lock.

_Well, at least there's Monday, right?_

* * *

Monday didn't work out. After spending an exhausting weekend helping Hotaru and barely sleeping Sunday night thanks to having to take the late train to the academy, Mikan spent Monday afternoon collapsed in her bed, snoozing the day away.

So when Tuesday morning came and Mikan had to go to Vocal Techniques, she wasn't nearly as prepared as she should've been. And she _tanked_.

Mikan groans into her pillow as she remembers how it went yet again. She'd tangled up the words in the middle of the song, even with the music sheet right in front of her! Narumi was completely understanding about her mistake, especially after she told him what she'd been doing the whole weekend, but that still didn't shake the embarrassment or disappointment of the whole endeavor. For goodness' sake, she's in the _vocal program_. Such a rookie mistake should be beneath her.

Another groan escapes her lips, and this time she punches the pillow for effect.

"You know, you've been doing that for half an hour."

Mikan stifles the urge to groan again and instead twists around to glower at Sumire. "Can a girl not punch a pillow in peace anymore? Is that not allowed?"

"Not when they're annoying as hell," Sumire says dryly, mildly irritated fingers tapping on the surface of her black desk. "What's got your panties in a twist anyway?"

She opens her mouth for a retort—her panties are _not _twisted in any way—but then it curls into a grimace as images of what happened once again streams through her mind. "I messed up," she groans, dunking her face back into her pillow.

"Define 'messed up.'"

"I didn't sing a song right in singing class," Mikan says without lifting her head from the pillow.

"What? Alright, you know what, I don't care anyways. Just get up—your moping is ruining my vibe."

She stays where she is, because all her motivation feels like it's been sapped from her bones and it's easier to lie splayed on her bed like a wet noodle than do something productive, and she has a feeling that's what Sumire really wants her to do.

Sumire doesn't give up, though. "I'm going to give you to the count of three," she says, her voice sounding much closer and _very_ menacing. "If you don't get up, I'm dragging you out of your bed by your heels."

Maybe it's intrigue, or maybe it's instinctual self-preservation that prompts her to do it, but she looks up then. And there's Sumire, standing with her arms crossed and eyes sporting a glower that spells doom if she doesn't move _now_.

"_One._"

Mikan shoots out of her bed, immediately standing ramrod straight and planting her hands against her sides.

"Good," Sumire says smugly, moving into Mikan's line of sight. "Now come on, we're going somewhere."

Mikan doesn't even question her; she's too concerned for her survival. She mechanically puts on her slippers and stuffs her keys into the pocket of her pajamas, following Sumire out the door without a word.

Sumire Shouda is a scary, scary woman.

* * *

The elevator door opens and the two of them step out to face a series of glass doors. Above them is a plastic sign that says "Recreational Room."

Mikan might not have been in this school for more than a week, but even she knows what a recreational room is. "Sumire, if this is an attempt to get me to socialize, you should quit while you're ahead. I'm really bad at talking to people while I'm upset."

It's not a complete lie. When she's upset, she prefers to wallow in her own secluded corner, which incidentally means not talking to anyone.

But nothing gets past Sumire. She raises her eyebrows and gives Mikan a look that tells her exactly how much she cares about that statement: absolute zilch. "Come on," she says, striding up to the door and pushing it open.

With one last mopey sigh, Mikan sluggishly follows behind.

The room is actually quite big. It's in the shape of a long rectangle, with both sides of the room having little "hangout" spaces where a part of the room is sectioned off by a big couch. The spaces have a few tables and things to sit on, like loveseats and beanbags. Propped on the left and right walls are two huge TVs, which the big couches have prime seating for. You'd think that'd be enough for a recreational room, but there's more. Directly in front of Mikan and Sumire are some pool tables, and Mikan would totally be down to play some with Sumire…except they're already taken up by Natsume and his friends.

She catches Natsume's eye while he steadies the stick he's using on the edge of the table, and buried indignance flares up in her chest. He sends her a smarmy, burned pancake-eating grin, as if he's telling her to just come closer so that he can troll her to hell and back. Mikan turns away with a huff, pressing her mouth into a thin, annoyed line. If this is one of Natsume's hangout spots, she does _not _want to be here.

Turning to Sumire, she starts to say the words, "let's go somewhere else," but Mikan isn't even past "let's" when Sumire walks straight past her and up to Koko.

"O_kay_…" she says to herself, furrowing her eyebrows. "Guess I'm on my own, then."

Mikan makes sure to give Natsume a wide berth as she makes her way to the other end of the room, keeping to the far side of the wall for extra measure. However, her footsteps slow and grow more reluctant the closer she gets, until she comes to a full stop just beyond the big couch.

What faces she does see in the area are faces she doesn't recognize. To make matters worse, they're all laughing and speaking raucously together, as if they've been friends forever. Mikan bites her lip, feeling nervousness start to wail at her insides. '_You can do this. Just walk up. There's no reason to be nervous—these guys are all here for music, just like you._'

She sucks in a huge breath and steps forward.

And immediately releases it in relief, because in a sitting spot that Mikan couldn't see previously thanks to a wall beam are two familiar faces.

"Oh hey, it's the newbie!"

The upperclassmen that Mikan talked to when she was auditioning salute her, both of them comically squeezed into the same oversized bean bag. A delighted smile blooms on her face—she'd been hoping to see them again and thank them for keeping her sane while she was auditioning.

"Hey, it's been a while!" Mikan steps closer to them, waving her hand in greeting. "How's it been, um, uh…" She cringes.

"You forgot our names?!" The male upperclassman squawks, right before he receives a solid hit to the ribcage, courtesy of his female friend. A startled laugh escapes Mikan's lips; looks like that aspect of their relationship is still going strong.

"Don't worry about him," the girl says, casually tugging back a strand of bright pink hair as if she didn't just smack the soul out of her companion. "He's totally forgotten your name too. It's fine anyway—there's been a lot of introductions going around today." She laughs. "At this point, we could almost make a song out of everyone's names."

The whole area stills. A few people perk up in their seats. Mikan almost gets worried, until she catches people exchanging glances and mischievous grins start appearing. And that's when she realizes it. "_We could almost make a song_."

In the world of the Alice Academy of Music, her upperclassman friend just let loose some magical words.

She's realized it, too, because no one's grin is wider than hers. Using her poor male friend as an anchor, she heaves herself up and waves to someone somewhere behind Mikan. "Hey drummer boy! Come over here and give us a beat!"

Mikan turns her head to look at who she was calling, and to her surprise, Koko breaks away from his group at the pool tables and skips towards them, with Sumire in tow. The two of them stop just short of Mikan.

"You rang, milady?" Koko says, dramatically puffing his chest.

"Play us something familiar and/or recent," the upperclassman commands.

"Got it," he replies, tipping an imaginary hat towards her. He then commandeers a coffee table in the center of the area, making a show of cracking his knuckles.

Mikan leans towards Sumire. "Hey, can he really drum?"

Sumire makes a sound that's somewhere between a scoff and a snort. "Why don't you watch and figure it out for yourself?"

That's when Koko starts playing the beat from the Cups song. With only his _hands_. _In perfect tempo_. A few people burst out laughing at his choice, and the upperclassman nods in approval. Mikan can only stare in awe.

"Alright, listen up!" the upperclassman says. "We're all gonna sing our names to this beat! You can sing whatever else you want, too; the only rule is that you can't take too damn long." She points her chin towards someone sitting on the big couch. "Akira, you're in Vocal, so you start us off."

"Who's Akira?" Mikan asks Sumire, but Sumire only waves up a hand and shushes her.

And then a guy with long hair and equally long limbs stands up and starts singing—and _well_, too, doing a great job of setting the tone of the atmosphere. He's energetic and funny and clearly experienced, laying just enough groundwork for everyone else to start fooling around.

And fool around, _they do_. The fourth person that goes up is hilarious; somehow, she turns Cups into an imitation of a tribal chant. She has the weirdest, wiggly dance to go along with it, and everyone starts rolling in laughter. That particular performance nearly stops the whole thing altogether, because even Koko can't keep himself from laughing.

He makes it through, though, which gives him some serious points in Mikan's book. Who knew he could be so professional? Mikan leans into Sumire's ear and tells her as much.

Sumire grins proudly. "Of course he's good. How do you think he managed to get into this school?"

Okay, Sumire, grinning proudly about someone else? Mikan raises her eyebrows, but doesn't comment. There's definitely another layer to their relationship that she isn't aware of, and she's gonna ask Sumire about it later, when they're back in their dorm. For now, she sways side to side to the beat of Koko's hands, smiling wide even though her cheeks already hurt from all the laughing she's been doing.

The line of singers moves in an ever-expanding circle, as more and more people filter into their side of the room to spectate and end up getting roped in. Some of them are great, like this girl named Yuri Miyazono. She breaks the bend, singing in a melody unrelated to Cups and nailing it anyway. Mikan looks at her in awe, hoping she can get to that level during her time in the school. Others are clearly unpracticed, but make up for it by being as ridiculous as possible—like the dude she recognizes as Koko's friend, Kitsuneme. He slinks to the center of the area and tries to sound as outrageously flirtatious as possible, "serenading" every female in sight, only to be tripped by Koko extending his foot at just the right moment. It's his stock scream-like yelp that sells it; once again, Mikan finds herself laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

And here's the kicker: no one judges him for it. No one is judging _anyone_, regardless of the quality of their performance. Everyone's just having fun. Mikan can't think of a better place, a better atmosphere to experience the full joy of being here, in this school.

This is what it's like to attend the Alice Academy of Music. _This_.

And Mikan already loves it so much, she feels like her chest is going to burst.

So when the line moves back to her side, Mikan isn't the slightest bit worried. When the upperclassmen—Misaki and Tsubasa—sing their piece with their fair share of hilarity, she doesn't get nervous at all, even though she's next. She remembers a version of the song that she did with Hotaru a long time ago, and when Misaki and Tsubasa finish, she sings.

Like _really_ sings.

"My name is Mikan Sakura / I'm in the vocal program and / I'm gonna sing this song for you." And then she lets everything loose. The version she and Hotaru made has potential for tons of lung power, and she uses it up, adding flairs to the song that the original never had. Surprised gasps fill the room, and then people start to clap along, cheering her on. A feeling wells up in her that she can't name, but her chest feels like it's going to explode.

She puts it all in her singing. It's like she's absorbing every modicum of their energy and sending it back tenfold, and she's never, ever had so much fun singing in public in her life. All that matters to her right now is the music. Getting to the chorus—and the climax, because she didn't start at the beginning of the song—she throws all the power she's got into the words:

"Oh, you're gonna miss me when I'm gone!" She draws out the last word, prompting some more whoops and at least one "sing it, girl!"

Keeping dynamic, she sings the next two lines with proper enthusiasm. "You're gonna miss me by my walk / You're gonna miss me by my talk, oh."

But the last line, she doesn't set up as the end. She repeats it two more times, a smile on her face so wide that it nearly destroys her performance. In the end, voice low and calm, she sings, "You're gonna miss me when I'm gone."

For a second, people just let the words hang, with only Koko's beat to fill the air. And then they start whooping and clapping, the same way they did when other singers like Akira sang.

"Mikan Sakura, showing us how it's done!" Tsubasa cheers, reaching over Misaki to nudge her shoulder.

"Wow, Mikan. You didn't sing like _that_ earlier today," Anna says, wedged into the couch next to Nonoko—the two of them had snuck into their side of the room at some point, without Mikan even noticing.

Tsubasa's words, the continued glances sent her way even though the next singer has started, and Anna and Nonoko's looks of awe prove to be too much. Mikan flushes and looks away, towards the middle of the room—

And locks eyes with deep crimson.

Natsume, standing by the pool tables. He's…_staring_ at her. And for some reason, even though the last singer—Koko himself—is in the middle of stealing the show with his personal brand of humor, Natsume isn't looking away from her.

For equally inexplicable reasons, Mikan can't look away either.

What is she doing? Why is she letting this happen? He's a douchebag—a douchebag with really pretty eyes, but still someone she really doesn't like as a person.

Why does it feel like, even from fifteen feet away, his eyes are going to swallow her whole?

The moment ends when a thin, but _very_ strong hand grabs her shoulder and twists her around.

"Say hi to the camera," Sumire murmurs through an unmoving, runway-model smile.

With a jolt, Mikan notices the guy holding up his phone in front of them, and Mikan puts on a smile and waves. She should've known someone would record that whole event. Music is a form of entertainment, after all. She just hopes she looks good enough for youtube, where that video will inevitably end up.

The moment he moves on from them, Sumire practically pounces. She gets really close to Mikan's face and grips her upper arm, almost hard enough to hurt.

"What did I just witness?" she hisses.

Confused, Mikan can only say, "What…?"

Sumire quickly inhales, clear annoyance displayed on her face. "You. Natsume McHottie. You were having some weird kind of…eye-versation just now. Is there something going on between you two?"

A mortified squeak expels itself from Mikan's throat. "What—no! I mean, me and Natsume? No! Just—no!"

Her roommate does not look convinced, but her savior comes in the form of a cheerful Koko.

"Dude, Mikan, you were great!"

Mikan latches on to the change of subject immediately, carefully extricating herself from Sumire's death grip on her arm. "You were great too! That had to have taken half an hour, but you didn't let up at all…"

The two of them launch into a conversation—one that Sumire begrudgingly allows to happen. She throws in her own two cents once in a while, but Mikan catches her sending Mikan pointed looks that tell her that Sumire hasn't forgotten what had transpired between her and Natsume.

At some point, Mikan glances back towards Natsume, who's turned away and is chatting it up with his friends like nothing ever happened. Something unidentifiable settles in her gut.

In reality, Mikan has no clue what transpired either.

* * *

A/N: Hello, we've returned with the third chapter of Chasing Music! Our sincerest apologies to all the readers who were waiting a long time for this chapter. It's been pretty much a roller coaster with this—tears were shed, school finals were taken, constant nagging happened—but it's finally out! Hurray!

No amount of words can make up for the fact that this chapter is indeed a month late (unless it's 10k… which we have in this chapter *cries*). We will try to maintain a more constant schedule from here on out—everyone but Unknown Pain had trouble writing regularly before this story, so it's been a bit of a challenge. For the most part though, we've re-established our writing schedules.

Here's to hoping for easier and faster chapters! (And also a round of applause, if you will, for my friend Topaz Tsubasa who slaved over the chapter and endured aforementioned nagging from me. —Rinail)

Some news: Topaz Tsubasa will be going on vacation to New York soon, so there might be a few more delays from here on. Please bear with us in the meantime.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Hopefully, we'll see you next week.

-Rinail and Topaz Tsubasa

PS: Topaz Tsubasa, here. I am so sorry about the inconsistent quality of this chapter. The struggle while writing it was very, _very_ real. I'll try my best to do better next time!


	4. Dance Battles, Downfalls, and Dying

Note: This chapter was written by _Rinail, _with the (very slight) aid of _Topaz Tsubasa. _

* * *

**Chapter 4: Dance Battles, Downfalls, and Dying Internally**

It's 9 AM on a Saturday when Mikan sneaks out of her bed quietly, taking extreme care to not make any noise whatsoever. She has to restrain a hiss when her feet touch the cold wooden floor, but one look at the sleeping Sumire makes her hold back even her breath. She's learned the hard way what happens when she wakes Sumire up before noon on a weekend, and she's not exactly willing to go through the same thing all over again. Sumire's nails _hurt._

Thankfully, Sumire is on the opposite bed with her soft green blankets tangled up in a bunch around her slim ankles, still deep in dreamland. Mikan almost grins when she sees that her shirt is beginning to ride up, with her pajama shorts showing miles of toned legs for the world to see.

Mikan tiptoes her way over and pulls both Sumire's shirt down and the blankets up with cautious hands. _At least she won't catch a cold. _

Mikan pads her way over to the door, but she freezes when her roommate snorts and grumbles in her bed. Her hand is unmoving on the cold doorknob and her muscles are tensed and coiled like she's ready to flee at the first sign that Sumire is waking up, but to Mikan's relief, Sumire only rolls to sleep on her side before stilling.

Mikan lets out a grateful sigh. With painfully slow movements, she maneuvers her way around the door and into the bathroom, easing it behind her.

She's safe.

Or so she thinks.

There's a split second when all is quiet and peaceful, and Mikan can _feel _the nirvana shining its light upon her. It's great, it's glorious, and it's shaping up to be a wonderful day, but in the next instant, the first real noise of the morning screeches its arrival with the happy tune of "Peanut Butter Jelly Time".

Mikan's ringtone.

Mikan curses under her breath, and slowly she swivels around. A sliver of hope within her tells Mikan that _maybe_ if she stays still and quiet, Sumire won't wake up.

"_Peanut butter jelly, peanut butter jelly, peanut butter jelly…" _

She hears a snort stop halfway and a suspicious rustling in the room before Sumire lets out a muffled groan.

"Mikan, you fucker, turn off your goddamn phone, or I'll shove it down your _throat."_

And there goes that hope.

Mikan can't help but release a pathetic squeak at the threat—she's a singer, she's completely _useless_ without her throat—and rushes into the room like a whirlwind. She isn't as quiet or subtle as she was a minute ago, but this time it's her vocal chords that are at stake, and the threat of murder is going to be very real if her phone doesn't shut up right _now._

She lunges for her phone and snatches it up, putting it on silent immediately, and after a few seconds of utter quiet, her gaze darts to her roommate. Sumire is downright glowering at her, her hands making a suspicious twitching movement towards her throat, and Mikan has to choke down the urge to whimper for the long seconds that pass before Sumire slumps back down on the bed.

"I'll kill you later," she mutters, voice muffled by her pillow. "You have a three-hour head start. I suggest taking the fastest plane to Bolivia."

Mikan can feel all the blood draining from her face and going straight into her heart. "Right," she squeaks. "Sleep well, Sumire."

Sumire opens an eye lazily. "I was, before you interrupted me." The stare turns into the epitome of murder in a heartbeat. "Good_bye,_ Mikan."

Mikan stays just long enough to whimper out something that sounds like a "goodbye, Sumire" before she sprints out of the room like demons are on her heels.

_Well, one demon, _Mikan amends in her head once the door slams behind her. _One terrifying demon._

Slumping, Mikan loosens the death grip she has on her phone and turns it on again. The blaring notification of_ "Missed Call from Dad"_ only makes her sigh. Of course it's his actions that almost resulted slipping into a coma.

With another sigh, she calls him back and settles on the wall to wait. To his credit, her dad picks up after the second ring, but it's still not enough to keep her from interrupting any greetings. Instead, she cuts straight to the point and hisses, "Dad, you almost got me murdered today."

He doesn't even sound remotely alarmed. _"Really?" _

_Jerk. _

Mikan huffs. _"Yes,_ really. My roommate almost shoved my phone down my throat after you called."

"_Do phones even fit in throats?"_

"I don't know, but I can assure you that she was willing to try."

She can almost see him nodding._ "Impressive,"_ he says, and _damn him, _he sounds exactly as if he's nodding. _"I'll be sure to call at this time on weekends from here on out."_

Mikan recoils violently at his statement. "Dad, you're actually going to get me killed."

"_Now, now, Mikan, I'm sure your roommate can't be that bad."_

"No, she really is. Worse than Mom when she doesn't have her coffee for the day."

"_Well then, darling, that's just more reason for me to call you!"_

Mikan heaves an exasperated sigh before settling down on the floor to make herself comfortable. She has a feeling that this is going to take a while.

* * *

She's proven correct an _hour _later when her dad continues to prattle on with no sign of stopping. The only reason she knows that it's been an hour is the clock on her phone that reads _10:06 AM. _

Her phone is beginning to burn her hand and cheek with how much it's been forced to endure, and sighing, she interrupts him mid-sentence. "Dad, my phone's about to run out of battery, and I have to get ready for the day."

"_Oh. It's already at that time?" _Her dad says, sounding surprised. _"If you have to go, Mikan, then go get ready. Don't let your old man keep you waiting."_

Mikan smiles. "Thanks, Dad."

"_No problem. Should I tell your mom you said hi?"_

Mikan hesitates for a second before answering. "No, let her sleep. I'm sure she's tired, anyway."

"_Alright. But Mikan, you're gonna have to make up with her at some point. I can't keep things patched up forever."_

"Yeah, I know," Mikan says. "Just… I'll talk to her when I'm ready."

There's static over the receiver as her dad sighs, and she knows he's dying to ask when that's going to be, but to her surprise, he doesn't do anything of the sort. Instead, he just says, _"Okay. I love you."_

Mikan tries to ignore the guilt weighing down at her heart. "I love you too."

_Click. _

Mikan sighs and lets her phone drop down to her lap, leaning her head back to the wall. She stares blankly at the ceiling for a couple of moments.

As much as she tries to forget it, Mikan still remembers her mother's disapproving face with shocking clarity. Before she even auditioned for the academy, she knew of her mom's dislike of her career choice as a singer. She knew of it, but Mikan never knew how deep her objections ran up until a few months ago when her mom verbalized them, screaming about how she would just end up failing, how there were so many other good schools that she could choose from, how she could never be a successful singer—

Well, it's not particularly surprising to Mikan that her biggest problem right now is self-doubt.

Her heart wrenches painfully at the thought of her not being able to succeed as a singer. Singing is all that matters to her; it's the only thing that has _ever _mattered to Mikan, the only thing that made her feel truly herself.

And it's not like Mikan isn't aware of the possibilities—few singers, if any, make it big like her favorite stars. There's too much competition, too much talent; there are people with a skill level that she can't possibly hope to reach, and even they sometimes don't end up making it. It's a path riddled with holes and bumps along the way, and Mikan knows that all too well.

She swallows past the lump in her throat and closes her eyes, trying to block of all negative thoughts regarding her future. It's an uncertain future, but if there's any hope of her making it big, she has to keep in mind that, when it comes to uncertainties, anything is possible.

_It has to be, _Mikan thinks, exhaling shakily. _It just has to._

* * *

After the ending to that wonderful conversation with her dad, Mikan—not surprisingly—feels a lack of motivation to do anything.

Mikan releases another groan and shifts on her bed, tossing her blankets to the side with an irritated grumble.

Over by her desk, her roommate sighs. "I thought you were going to do something today."

Mikan twists over to look at her, a pout forming on her lips. "I _was._"

Sumire waits expectantly for a few seconds, but when nothing else follows Mikan's statement, Sumire sighs again and prompts, "And?"

Mikan pulls the blanket over her head. "And nothing! Maybe I was going to practice singing earlier in the morning, but I don'twant to anymore."

"Amazing," Sumire deadpans, and after a second, adds, "I don't suppose this has anything to do with that phone call at ass o' clock in the morning?"

"It was _nine,_" Mikan grumbles, "and no, it has nothing to do with my phone call."

There's a hum in acknowledgement from Sumire before Mikan hears some shuffling, which means Sumire's going out again.

Mikan cranes her head around. "Where are you going?"

Sumire gives her a pointed look. "Out," she says. "Because my roommate is terrible company."

Well, that's just not fair. "I am _not _terrible company."

Sumire hums again, but this time the sound seems a touch more dissatisfied. "Might want to reconsider that. You've conveniently forgotten that you lied to me—twice now."

Mikan pushes herself up into a sitting position. "I was not—"

"You are," Sumire interrupts. "And you better get yourself out of that funk too, because I won't be back until six."

"_Six?!"_Mikan cries. "What am I supposed to do for all that time?"

Sumire shrugs and slings her bag over her shoulder, having already changed into her dance clothes. "Hell if I would know. Practice your singing, go explore the campus, bother your friends—do whatever."

"But Sumire—"

"You have to go chase the music sometime, Mikan," Sumire says, opening the door. "So do it."

The door slams shut.

Huffing, Mikan settles back down on her bed. "Chase the music"—what's _that _supposed to mean?

Mikan wastes the first half hour that Sumire is gone doing useless things. She picks up all the trash littering the floor of their dorm, tidies up the bed a bit, and watches cat videos on Youtube for the rest of the hour before she realizes exactly how much time she's throwing away.

The clock reads 2:17 PM, and with a sigh, Mikan decides to do what Sumire told her. She might as well; it's her third week at the academy, going on four, and she _still _hasn't explored the best of what her college has to offer besides going to class.

And well—that's just sad.

With a new determined air about her, she digs into her still half-full suitcase for something to wear and ends up plucking out a sleeveless white dress that she hasn't worn yet.

It's a nice little thing, reaching her mid-thighs with a line of dainty buttons in the center and a thin material that's somewhat rough on her fingers. She matches it with a narrow brown belt before throwing a soft-knit beige cardigan over the whole ensemble.

She's fashionable, sure, but doesn't mean she's about to go out with a sleeveless dress smack dab in the middle of autumn.

Mikan tugs on one stocking and hobbles her way over to the army of shoes at their front door, all the while tugging on her other one. Somehow she manages to make it without breaking a limb, which is a feat in her opinion—_and _she even tugged on the rest of her stockings!

With a pleased grin, Mikan sets out to find some shoes to wear, and almost immediately, she finds them.

They're Sumire's boots, but as far as Mikan knows, they wear the same size and she's positive that Sumire won't murder her for it if it's for a fashion emergency. Plus, those high boots are practically _begging _to be worn with how well it matches.

So that's that.

Mikan picks up her bag lying on the floor beside her before heaving herself to her feet. She surveys the room for a second, taking in all the details that she's already memorized, and thinks, _Screw it. Let's go._

And finally, _finally, _Mikan steps out of the doorway, letting the door slam shut behind her. Driven by some unknown impulse, she pauses and pats her bag and pockets for a last minute check to make sure she has everything—money, student ID, keys—

Her patting turns a little more forceful, then dissolves into full on panicked when she can't feel the familiar weight of the gold key in her pocket. Key, key, where's her stupid key?

She all but dumps out half her belongings on the floor right then and there, frantically shuffling through them to look for the key. But to no avail—she can't find it.

Dammit.

It seems she'll have to stay out for a lot longer than expected.

* * *

Her first inclination is to explore, since there's a lot of the academy she hasn't seen. So she does. She passes by the administrative building, the library, the giant hall she'd had her auditions in, a lot of student hangout spots she'd never noticed before, the academy's central square, and she does it twice over, just for good measure.

The central square is a nice surprise. Sure, she's passed by it before, but in the middle there's a fountain that she never found the time to fully appreciate. And this fountain is _huge_—even bigger than her town's community pool, and probably just as deep. Idly, Mikan wonders how many students have been expelled for trying to swim in it.

She takes a seat at the fountain's marble rim and checks her phone. The time reads half-past three o'clock. Seriously? Even after she'd made sure to walk around campus twice, it's only been a little over an hour since she was locked out of her dorm? Mikan groans. She's already done everything there is to do in campus while alone, so what is she gonna do to kill time?

Wait. She's only done everything in _campus_. Mikan nearly smacks herself for not having thought of it earlier. The Alice Academy of Music is in Central Town, one of the biggest cities in the country: all she has to do is cross the street and there will probably be scores of things for her to do.

Pumping a determined fist in the air, Mikan sets out to do just that.

* * *

As Mikan weaves her way out of the busy shop, pink cotton candy in hand, she's made aware of a crowd's presence by the excited roar to her left. She cranes her head around and instantly, she can see maybe twenty to thirty people standing around the side of the street, creating a half circle against the length of the short wall of concrete.

Curiosity piqued, she finishes off the remnants of her cotton candy and throws the stick in the trash before moving to the edges of the crowd to see what all the fuss is about. She strains her neck in hopes of seeing above the crowd, but she's naturally a short person—_curse _her genes—and she can't see above their shoulders, much less their heads.

Sighing, she opts for the short person route—otherwise known as the "duck under everybody and avoid their elbows" method—just as another roar spreads throughout the crowd. She raises an eyebrow and begins to duck through the crowd, slowly but steadily working her way to the front. And the moment she breaks through, she understands the reason for all the uproar.

It's a dance battle.

There are only two dancers, but a group of people to the side provide the music. One of them has even broken out his drumsticks, absently tapping on whatever surface he can find to give the beat, and another one follows it as he beatboxes, eyes fixed on the two dancers duking it out.

And it's a battle, alright. Mikan doesn't think she's seen such—_fierceness _in dance before, such intense heat and passion in their powerful movements. Considering she's seen a lot of amazing dancers—Natsume grudgingly included—that's saying quite a bit.

The dancers sport matching grins on their faces, but only one of them is dancing. There's a dancer standing off to the side, brown eyes carefully watching every move that the other dancer makes. He's got a lopsided cap placed on his head with an equally lopsided smile lingering on his lips as he takes in the girl's movements.

As for the girl...

Well. If Mikan would choose one word to describe the girl dancing, she'd choose "lightning." Not specifically because of the way she moves—although she is pretty fast—but because her clothes are all yellow and white, and when her limbs strike out, the power is nearly _palpable_. Every time her arms move, it's like electricity shrieking down the sky, sharp and precise in a way that's only achieved with years of practice. Then she notices the bright blue lightning bolts stitched down the sides of the girl's cropped hoodie, and wonders if that's on purpose.

The girl whirls around, a quicksilver smile with the faintest edge of mocking flashed to the boy before it disappears.

Then, just like that, something changes.

The other dancer snorts and makes a sharp motion with his hand. The music cuts off.

Mikan's gaze flicks between the two of them. What's going on?

The girl's movements slow to a stop. She regards the other dancer with a curious look. "Something wrong, Tetsuo?"

"Yeah, just a bit," Mikan hears the other dancer—Tetsuo—call out. "I was wondering when you were going to get serious, Koharu."

Her mouth drops open. Serious? As if she wasn't before?

But Koharu just leans back on her heel and shrugs. "I'm not sure if I ever will," she says. A devious grin spreads across her lips. "Unless you manage to impress me, that is."

Mikan looks back just in time to see Tetsuo shrug. "Alright," he says. He nods at the group of musicians by the side, and the music starts up again in a frenzy. He turns back to Koharu, eyebrows raised. "I'm assuming you want a lead?"

Koharu smirks. "You can try, pretty boy."

He grins. "Okay, then. I'll give you something you can follow."

* * *

Mikan stares blankly at the ground as she walks back on the familiar path to her dorm, mind in a daze and moving on autopilot. She can't help but remember; the memories of the dance battle keep filtering through her head, unable to make her think of anything else.

It was...

Amazing. It was amazing—there's no other word for it. Even without being a dancer, she can tell that those two were insanely good. They moved without a hitch, fluidity following them every step of the way, but they also had variety, something that's hard for a lot of dancers to attain, according to her observations.

It stole her breath away, just watching them. They aligned with every thump of the makeshift beat, adjusted so easily to any changes in the tempo that the drummer made at the drop of a hat. She's never seen anyone who had such—presence, even when there wasn't a stage.

And it makes Mikan think, because they didn't look like they were trying hard; they were simply enjoying the heat of the moment, relishing in the feeling of dancing, and that's—

She's never felt that, singing. Of course there's the sensation of freedom and the pure love of it that courses through her veins, but she's never been able to enjoy herself like they had when she's in front of an audience. Mikan... Well, suffice to say, Mikan's probably goat shit compared to them.

Mikan catches sight of her door and with a sigh, she sits herself down on the floor beside it.

Stage presence. The ability to take someone's breath away just by looking.

All famous singers have that—they have the stage presence and that ability, but Mikan?

What a joke she must be to this academy.

And just as she's about to devolve into a whirlwind of negative thoughts, she hears footsteps approaching her, and she lifts her head up, not knowing what exactly to expect. The last few people who came by weren't Sumire after all, and Mikan's starting to lose hope that her roommate will _ever _come back, as silly as it sounds.

But lo and behold, it's Sumire's green hair she can see weaving through the hallways, and Mikan scrambles to her feet. She waits until Sumire is within a few feet of her before leaping on her with a desperate hug.

She clings to Sumire for a long moment, forcing her arms not to tremble when she does. It wasn't exactly a pleasurable experience outside, and the return of her roommate makes her heart at ease.

She breathes out quietly, tightening her arms just a bit.

"Hey," Sumire says, her voice a touch gentler than normal. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

Mikan almost feels like breaking out into tears at that. It's times like these that she's reminded that Sumire, despite her attitude, really is a good friend. She's a good person, an honest-to-god good person, and—

Sumire's going to worry.

Freakin' curtains in a hurricane, she's going to worry, and Mikan cannot have that. She just wants some normalcy, dammit, and if Sumire's worried, then she won't get it for six centuries.

So Mikan pulls back, sets her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and—

"Sumire!" she cries. "You have no idea what I've suffered while you were gone! I lost my keys and I was locked out, so I decided to go around and tour the campus like you told me to a few days ago. There was a dance battle going on, and it was _super _amazing, but the thing was, they were all really good and, oh man, you should've _seen _how—"

Sumire holds a hand up, and years of watching Hotaru do the same thing to her makes Mikan stops her rambling in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"You," Sumire says simply. "You're talking eighty miles per minute, Mikan. Slow down and roll it back."

Mikan cocks her head in confusion. "Roll what back?"

Sumire sighs. She doesn't deign Mikan with a reply, instead choosing to dig in her purse for her keys. For a second, a pang of terror strikes Mikan as she watches Sumire shuffle through her purse, and she has to wonder if _Sumire _also left her keys back in the room, but at that moment Sumire's arm reappears with a key in hand.

Releasing a grateful breath, Mikan steps to the side to let Sumire unlock their door. "Thank heavens you're here," she says.

Sumire rolls her eyes and walks in alongside Mikan, turning to throw the keys on the counter. "You do realize that there's a thing called the RA?"

Mikan stops in her tracks. "What the heck is the RA?"

Sumire heaves another sigh. "It stands for the Resident Assistant. They're also called dorm managers."

Mikan blinks, pausing in her raid of the fridge for a moment before continuing. "Okay," she says, "is this supposed to mean anything to me?"

She turns around just in time to dodge a flying pillow. Mikan shoots an accusing glance at her, but to avail; Sumire has her back to Mikan. Though Mikan does hear her snap, "Yes, you idiot! They told you about the RA's and whatnot during orientation. Weren't you there?"

Mikan closes the fridge door with a roll of the eyes. "No, actually, because my dad couldn't take me."

"What about your mom?"

Her mom. Well. That's a shut door if she ever saw one, but Mikan can't see the conversation going anywhere with that statement and at this rate, she'll never get her answer for her question. So—

"My mom is sick," Mikan says instead. "She couldn't drive."

Sumire studies her for a few long seconds before finally replying. "You know, you're a terrible liar." By the time Mikan even registers the words, Sumire's moving on with her answer about the RA. "Anyway, the dorm managers are there just to help you out. If you have trouble in your dorm like a leak or something, you can go to the RA with that. Or in this case, if you lost your key, then you can ask the RA for another one. Costs a bit of money, though."

Mikan can already feel the despair settling down on her shoulders at the thought of money. She's a college student, for heaven's sakes. "How much?"

Sumire shrugs. "Maybe like fifty bucks, give or take?"

Apparently, Sumire is able to see the distress painted on Mikan's face, because in the next instant, a grin surfaces on her lips. "Don't worry about it. I'm pretty sure you just left your key in here and forgot about it."

Sixteen minutes of desperate searching later, Sumire's shown to be correct. Mikan emerges from underneath her bed, a gold key clutched in her dusty fingers. "I found it!" Mikan crows.

Sumire flips a page of her magazine, shifting on her bed to prop her chin on her palm. Then she notices Mikan scowling at her, and disinterest all but _oozes _from her as she stares back. "What?"

Mikan sits back on the hard frame of her bed. "You could've helped me, you know."

"I could have." A page flip.

Mikan glowers at her. "You're _such _an irritating cabbage."

Sumire raises an eyebrow. "Would you still be calling me an irritating cabbage if I took you down to another session at the studios?"

Mikan's blood drains from her face at the word _'studios'. _"No! I'd call you worse! Don't you even dare thinking about dragging me down, don't you _dare_—"

Sumire tosses her magazine on her bed and sits up with a grin. "Well, I guess that settles it." She pushes herself off the bed and makes her way for the door. "Let's get going. It's cold today, so grab a nice pair of sweatpants and a tank top. Take a jacket, too, while you're at it."

Mikan can feel a sob building in her throat, and she's about to release it when Sumire pops her head back into the room.

"And this time, wear a pair of shoes, for heaven's sake."

* * *

Expectedly, Mikan grumbles on the entire way to the studio.

"I just don't understand why I have to go," she says. "You could've gone by yourself."

Sumire rolls her eyes—for the ninth time—and speeds up her pace a little. "Right, and you'd leave your roommate alone?"

"Yes," Mikan deadpans.

Sumire fixes her with a glare. "I also opened the door for you, you ungrateful bastard."

Mikan purses her lips. That's the one retort she can't counter, and with a long-suffering sigh, she resigns herself for more dancing torture.

But as they near the studio, Mikan realizes there is something very, _very _wrong. The first indication is the blaring music they can hear even before they round the corner. Sumire's face turns dark like she's ready to commit homicide—Mikan _knows _how she hates unnecessary noise—but the moment they turn into the hallway, her hand actually twitches, fingers curling into fists, because the door of their reserved studio—

Is unlocked_._

Mikan is pretty sure that reserved studios are_ reserved_ for a reason—meaning that they're not supposed to be used by anyone else than the person who saved it—but the door is unlocked and hanging wide open anyway, and Sumire's steps shift into something a little more deadly.

Mikan sees them before Sumire does. There are two boys leaning against the doorway; one has a lean, straight back and blond strands dancing on the nape of his neck, and the other is more unrefined with the mess of dark hair and a rumpled shirt hanging on his broad shoulders. She almost expects Sumire to stop because _boys—_and seemingly attractive ones at that—but Sumire doesn't falter a single step, and Mikan knows what's going to happen before it even happens.

And so, the final indication: Sumire speeds up, a snarl forming on her lips, and she shoves past the two boys by the entrance with a murderous air about her. At the same moment, Mikan slows and waits for the inevitable explosion.

"_You!" _Mikan hears Sumire screech inside the studio. "What are you _dickbags _doing here?!"

Ah.

There it is.

Cringing, Mikan arrives at the door just in time to see Sumire all but hurl herself towards a familiar sandy-haired boy. "We reserved this studio three days ago!" she shrieks, jabbing her fingers at his neck. "_Get out!"_

Koko winces, valiantly attempting to block her hands but failing. "Sumire—"

"Don't you _'Sumire' _me, asshole!" Sumire shrieks. "What the hell are you doing here?! It's reserved for a reason, so get the _f—mmph_—_"_

Mikan stares in a mix of awe and fear as Koko smacks a hand over Sumire's mouth, meeting her glower with an easy grin. "Just shush for two seconds, Sumire. We're about to get to the good part."

Sumire makes a furious noise and attempts to punch him, but all Koko does is shush her again, guiding her gaze to the center of the studio. "Watch," he says. "Three minutes, and I swear we'll leave."

At the promise, Sumire settles down, but not without shooting Koko another scathing glare. Her expression clearly screams _"better be worth it" _and out of concern for Koko's life, Mikan hopes that it will be.

With an abrupt _thump, _the current song playing from the stereo winds to an end, and a new song takes its place. Mikan cocks her head to listen more closely when no sound comes out, but an instant later, she hears the faint sound of a guitar growing to life.

The song has a certain melody to it that makes Mikan think of dark alleys behind clubs. She can almost imagine the lights inside pulsing in time with the slow rhythm; a strong beat thrums underneath the low bass, volume increasing by the minute. Closing her eyes, Mikan taps her foot absently to the beat when she realizes that the song is perfect for—

Natsume steps up to the center of the studio, and Mikan's breath stops in her throat.

A dance song.

Mikan sees the change that happens when he settles in the center of the room. There's a certain sort of easy grace and confidence that slips into Natsume's steps before he's about to dance; his shoulders lose their rigid line of tension, his arms swing free and loose at his sides, and his eyelids fall shut like he's absorbing the beat and the music.

No matter what song it is, he always looks as if he has everything under control, as if he_ knows_ he's good and has no excuse to hide it, and Mikan envies that like nothing else.

"_I want to be honest, I want to be bad, I want to destroy you, I want to move fast…"_

His movements are slow and deliberate as words begin to pour into the song. Natsume's left arm stretches out to the side, lean muscles rippling under his shirt; he begins with steady limbs, but Mikan can feel the tension simmering underneath, just waiting to explode.

And once the beat hits, it does.

Power erupts from his limbs with all the force of a detonating volcano. Natsume's arms jerk and snap out to the beat thumping its support in the background, feet never staying on the floor for more than a second. What with the way his feet move constantly, it should give off an overall flighty vibe for a dance, but it's as if they're rooted to the ground.

Watching him, Mikan's limbs tense of their own accord. Her body—consciously or not—wants to dance and join him in the beat, because now, she doesn't only envy his confidence. She envies the way he moves, how sharp and precise his movements are even without following a practiced choreography.

This dance is different from the one she saw at the auditions, she can tell. It's not just the fact that the dance and the song is different, but it's something else. During the auditions, he showed off all the skills he had in a masterfully arranged choreography.

But this dance—it's showing every part of him that matters; it shows the way he likes to move, the way he listens to the music, the way he expresses it through dance. Natsume's audition for the academy was unrestrained and free, yes, but it's _nothing _compared to the art she's seeing now.

Natsume dances like he's pouring all the strength he has into his movements, dances like he's breaking free of the cage silence puts him in. Only when the music is playing does Mikan think that she sees everything that Natsume is, and it's—

He kicks his feet off the ground and spins in the air, landing lightly on his knees with a smirk—no, _grin—_surfacing on his lips.

_Beautiful, _Mikan thinks.

She's joining all the others in applause before she even realizes what she's doing—or more accurately, _who _she is clapping for—and it's only when red eyes meet hers that she stops.

The grin turns into something a little more mocking. "Starting to fall for me, sweetheart?"

And immediately, Mikan bristles, all form of admiration evaporating in an instant.

It's not just his gaze or the 'sweetheart' that ignites the fire in her chest; it's his irritating way of saying it, sarcasm dripping off the words. Combined with his tendency to be an arrogant jerk on the best of days—well, it makes her wonder why or _how _she ever thought him as beautiful in the first place.

Mikan's expression twists into a dark scowl. "Only if I was falling with a knife."

But Natsume, that utter _jerk_, doesn't even bother with a proper retort, only an infuriating, "Cute, sweetheart" before moving away to talk to the blond guy in the corner.

Mikan moves forward, maybe to hound him for that annoying 'sweetheart' or punch his lights out, but then she hears an exasperated sigh from the back of the room.

_"Fine," _Sumire says. "I'll give you a pass for that. That was freakin' gorgeous."

"Told you!" Koko crows triumphantly.

"But," Sumire says, stressing the word, "you still have to explain why the hell you're here in the first place."

"Well, we just wanted a place to chill and possibly jam out—"

"But why _our_ studio?" Sumire demands. "There are literally seventeen other studios in this hall!"

Even in the face of Sumire's growing scowl, Koko somehow manages to find it in himself to grin. "For the sense of adventure," he answers. "'Twas calling to us, so off we went."

But Mikan can see that for Sumire, who has trekked through a cold day in hell for a studio that was already taken—

Well. It's just not a good enough answer.

"_A sense of adventure?!" _Sumire shrieks, and for the third time that day, Mikan winces. "You damn well better find a good reason for taking up _my _studio before I slam your ass right into the nearest river!"

Kitsu snickers. "'Slam your ass'," he says. "Guess we know who wears the pants in this relationship."

Despite herself, Mikan can't help but join in on the laughter.

Sumire rounds on them with a newfound vengeance. _"Shut up,"_ she hisses viciously. "I don't have the timeto deal with you fools; if you aren't going to be useful, then either be quiet or get the _fuck _out of my studio."

Mikan's torn between being impressed or scared to death, and after a loud heartbeat, she settles for both in silence.

But then she hears a scoff from the corner of the room. "Some great choices you're offering there, Sumire," Natsume drawls, and _oh god, _what is that idiot doing?!

Mikan restrains the urge to scream when Sumire takes a step forward. "Natsume," she warns, "I'm giving you three seconds—"

"For what?" he asks. There's actual _amusement _glinting in his eyes as he raises an eyebrow. "What exactly can you—"

He's interrupted by a hand clapped over his mouth. Ignoring the near-murderous look in his eyes, Mikan looks over at the owner of the hand—and it's his blond friend that he was talking to earlier.

Mikan's respect for the blond goes up by several notches.

"Um, that's just his way of saying sorry," Blondie's saying, a sheepish smile on his lips. "He's not the most social person, as you can see."

It should be downright illegal to have such a gorgeous smile, but to Mikan's surprise, Sumire's gaze remains frosty as ever when she turns to face him. "And who would you be?"

"I'm Ruka," he greets pleasantly. "Hello."

She narrows her eyes. "Well, _Ruka, _do you think you and your posse of douchebags can get the hell out of my studio?"

Ruka ignores the chorus of complaints and protests from the boys with what seems like practiced ease. "Sure thing," he says instead. "But first, I really would like to apologize for breaking into your studio."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really." He scratches at his head. "It was their idea to break in, but they only thought of it after I said that I needed a break from practicing. Really sorry about that, by the way."

Sumire arches an eyebrow. "What were you practicing?"

"Violin," he says. "We got a new piece in orchestra, so I figured I should get started on it."

And apparently the image of this gorgeous, tall, blue-eyed boy playing an instrument like the violin is too much to bear for Sumire's boy-loving personality because her gaze loses its ice in an instant; she turns up her nose up snobbishly, but Mikan _knows _she's wavering when she focuses on Ruka.

Mikan sighs and settles down to wait; and not even a second later—

"_Fine,"_ Sumire huffs. "It's only because you're handsome that I'm forgiving you."

Ruka smiles, and somewhere trapped under Sumire's foot, Koko squawks indignantly. "Paws off!" he shouts. "I've called dibs for eight _years,_ you monster!"

Sumire releases an annoyed breath. "Shut up, Koko. Just because I've known you for eight years doesn't mean I can't appreciate that boy's beautiful eyes or Natsume's gorgeous biceps." She sighs, sounding more and more lovestruck by the minute. "Bless."

Koko pulls himself away from Sumire's shoe and scrambles upright. "I have biceps, too!" As if to prove his point, he pushes up the sleeves of his shirt and shoves his arm into her face. "Come on. You can't just disregard _these_ guns."

Behind him, Natsume chokes. Mikan hears the faint sound of Kitsu wheezing in the far corner, and Koko whips his head around to glare at them both before turning back to Sumire. "Come on," he pleads."Look at them. _Love _them."

Sumire rolls her eyes, ducking out from under his arm to head toward Mikan. "No thanks. I wouldn't want to look at your wimpy arms even if there was no other man left on Earth."

Koko clutches at his heart. "Ouch. That hurts, Sumire."

"It was supposed to!"

As Koko's face visibly crumples, Sumire turns her attention to the rest of the boys standing around. "Do you boys have anywhere to go, or are you staying for the show?"

Surprisingly, Natsume is the one who answers. "We'll stay for the show," he says with a shrug. "Might as well."

"Natsume, you lady-stealing, silver-tongued, sex-god of an asshole! So okay, his biceps are really nice, but my eyebrows are _clearly _better than his, Sumire; you can do somuch better—"

"Oh my god, Koko, he's only here to watch my dancing."

"Which makes it even _worse, _are you kidding—"

"How is can that be worse? Is my dancing _really _that bad or—"

"No! I'm just saying you're unbelievably sexy when you dance, and—"

"So what, I'm not allowed to dance in front of other people now? God, Koko, do you even know why I'm in this academy?"

And that's the start of a somewhat violent argument. Looking at them now, the reason why Koko had chuckled at Sumire's name and called her merciless—well. It suddenly makes a lot more sense.

Mikan sighs before stepping between the two of them. "Break it up, children."

Sumire levels a glower at her. "Who are you calling a child?"

"You, apparently," Mikan retorts. "Come on, Sumire. It was only a studio and they already apologized like, three times. Just accept it and move on."

"Yeah!" Koko cries. "Move on!"

Sumire whirls on him with a newfound vengeance. "You," she growls, "can shut up right now, or I'll tell you where I can move on to."

"Sumire!"

"What? I'm just warning him."

Mikan rolls her eyes. "May I remind you that you came here to do something? Like dance? Remember that, Sumire?"

Sumire sticks her tongue out at Mikan.

A chuckle—sounding somewhat nervous—breaks both of them from their argument. Mikan turns to face Ruka, who scratches at his chin with what seems like embarrassment. "Sorry. It's just sort of funny to watch you bickering, especially when you"—he gestures at Mikan—"were calling her out on it a few minutes ago."

Mikan isn't quite sure how to reply to that, so Sumire swoops in and does it for her. "Tell me about it," her roommate says with a dramatic sigh. "She's always being two-faced about everything. This morning she was being all dramatic and negative, and then the next second she's peppy all over again. Gives me headaches, it does."

"Negative about what now?" a voice she recognizes as Natsume's says.

Mikan rounds on him, a scowl already surfacing on her lips. "Nothing you have to worry about," she snaps. "If you could butt out of this conversation, that would be _wonderful,_ thanks."

Natsume steps back, puts his hands up as if in mock surrender, and rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, _sweetheart."_

Mikan growls and takes a step towards him, but she stops once she feels a cool hand on her wrist. Koko meets her stare with a wide grin. "Let's all calm down now, shall we?"

Mikan stares at Koko for a second before she sighs. "I'm perfectly calm, Koko, thanks."

Koko hums thoughtfully but makes no move to release her hand, the jerk. "So, why else did you guys come here? Besides the dancing."

"Well, I was going to work out a few bits of this new choreo I'm working on"—insert Sumire's pointed glance that reads _"before you came, anyway"_—"and Mikan just tagged along."

Mikan scowls. "You dragged me here."

Sumire waves a dismissive hand. "Semantics."

Ruka, ever the diplomat, steps forward, an easy smile on his lips. "Come on, guys, no fighting. Relax." Sumire huffs, but makes no move to argue, so he turns to Mikan. "By the way, Mikan, since you're already here—"

"Oh, dude, nice idea! Mikan, darlin', you gotta let us hear that gorgeous voice of yours once. Sing for us. Come on. Please."

Mikan laughs at Koko's tone, but sobers up quickly at the mention of singing. Those bad thoughts are still lingering, even hours later, and well, Mikan doesn't exactly have faith in her ability at the moment.

_Terrible singer, no stage presence, drop out, drop out, drop out—_

She offers Koko a strained smile. "Sorry, it'll have to wait another time."

"Aw, man, why?"

"I, um—my throat's not feeling too good today. A little sore. Sorry."

Koko studies her for a few seconds, eyes narrowing in consideration before he lets out a dramatic sigh. "The lady said it herself," he says, finally releasing her hand. "We'll just have to wait another day."

Mikan gives another quick grin. "Sorry, guys."

"Well," Sumire says loudly, "if Mikan's not singing, then you all get to watch me at work." A wicked smile surfaces on her lips. "Don't get too excited, boys."

Mikan smiles at that and the answering whoops and cheers, but it fades soon enough as she settles down on the floor with a sigh, guilt nagging at her the entire time.

So now she's a talentless singer _and_ a liar.

Great.

* * *

Mikan shivers as a cold wind blows into her back; despite the fact that she has her jacket on, it's still nothing compared to how chilly the weather can be during the fall.

The sound of the door buzzing her in spreads a feeling of relief through her body, and she hustles herself through the building as quickly as she can. It wouldn't be good for a singer like her especially to catch a cold—Mikan's always been conscientious of that, and she's not about to stop now.

The moments she sets foot on the marble floor, heated air settles on her face, and she stands at the entrance to warm her cheeks before moving to the elevator at the end of the hall. Mikan hastens into the opening elevator, and she lets out a sigh as the door slides to a close.

She knows Hotaru won't exactly appreciate her visit, considering it's eight in the morning, but it's just that the past few days have been… rough on her, so to speak. She can't concentrate in her classes and she's been thinking about her mom and her scathing comments, no matter how much Mikan tries to avoid it. Not to mention, she still feels a bit of guilt at having lied to her friends twice.

There's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow down whenever she thinks about all of it. Mikan _knows _they're all minor things and she shouldn't really worry about it to this extent, but combined with her schoolwork, low self-esteem, and guilt at lying—

Mikan suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

She all but sprints out the elevator the moment the doors open to the fourth floor. God, she wants to see Hotaru again, and she's so _close, _too_._

Hotaru's always been the right person to come to, ever since they were little. She's always been the calm one between the two of them, the steady one, the hand that patted her on the back when no one else was there to, and it's all that Mikan wants as she runs through the hallways of the fourth floor.

Mikan tries not to think about the negative thoughts that have been plaguing her since three days ago, but it's hard to when there's no other sound beside her footsteps to distract her. But then—

_There._

_653\. _

Mikan skids to a stop.

Her hand is shaking as she presses her knuckles to the door. Mikan knocks three times in rapid succession, and when there's no response, she knocks more urgently, panic and anxiety fueling her actions.

She's just on the verge of bursting into tears—Hotaru has to be there, she _has _to—but the door opens, and Hotaru pokes her head out with an exasperated sigh. "Mikan, it's 8AM. What do you want at this—"

Hotaru falters when she lifts her head to meet Mikan's watery gaze.

"Hotaru," Mikan says, voice thick. "Can you let me in?"

* * *

A/N: Oh gosh. Okay. This. This freakin' chapter. Let me tell you guys a story. I started this chapter like all the way back in the _beginning of June. _It is now the beginning of September. I had so much trouble with this chapter you guys wouldn't even _know. _

I had random bits and snippets here and there and I honestly thought I was going to get this out on the due date, but what really ended up happening was I started to hate this chapter, I moved away from it to give myself some space, I went on a trip to Philadelphia (?) and then I ended up forgetting about it completely until about a week ago when I roused myself to finish this damn chapter once and for all. I'm very, very sorry for the delay and the terrible quality of this chapter. I promise I'll do better next time.

With that being said, the next chapter will be written by my friend Sam (Unknown Pain), so you can expect the chapter to come out somewhat soon (as in, _less _than three months). Hurray!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and/or favorited this story! Hope you guys enjoyed, and we'll hopefully see you in less than three months!

—Rinail

PS: Topaz-Tsubasa is uploading because yesterday login BS was happening and now everyone else is out of commission. Seeing as no one can stop me from doing this, RINAIL AND UNKNOWN PAIN ARE BUTTS. (jk they're both lovely human beings.) Have a nice day!


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